


If music be the food of love, play on

by TuskFM



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: As it should be, Bards, Character Death, Developing Relationship, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Guitars, Love Confessions, Loving Marriage, M/M, Minor Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Music, Musical Instruments, POV Alternating, Spies, Traveling, Watching Someone Sleep, andy is in several chapter but not the focus either, because past chapt 3 they are disgustingly in love and waste no moment to say it to each other, between Joe and Nicky mainly, next two tags only apply to chapter 6, oud, these two can also be applied to chapt7 to a lesser extent, this is about Joe and Nicky and from their POV, to not take anyone by surprise there's one chapt with Quynh one with Booker and one with Nile
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:40:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26258044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TuskFM/pseuds/TuskFM
Summary: It takes a decade for Nicolò to learn to play the oud, and a few more to master it. His hands already know the feeling of gut strings under his fingertips when he picks up a lute in the early years of 1540s. Yusuf is already smiling when he plucks the first string.-Joe and Nicky’s relationship told through the history of the guitar in Europe.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 74
Kudos: 123





	1. The oud

**Author's Note:**

> Idea based on [this great post](https://tovezza.tumblr.com/post/625637679664611329/love-the-idea-that-niccol%C3%B2-learned-to-play-the) by [@tovezza](https://tovezza.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.
> 
> I’m an absolute nerd that has been playing the guitar for 8+ years, so I feel qualified enough to rant about its history for 15 chapters. However, I am not, no matter how much I read, as qualified in history, nor in North Africa and Arabic culture, or anything close to the Mediterranean world for that matter. If anything is wrong, or hurtful, don’t hesitate to tell me! I’ll change/delete the part and do better. You can DM me on tumblr [@salzundhonig](https://salzundhonig.tumblr.com/).
> 
> No beta. There’s going to be mistakes and misspellings, all my own.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After two years of travel, Yusuf stumbles upon an oud. He buys the instrument, and Nicolò takes great interest in it. Yusuf begins to teach him the way of music.

I haven’t understood a bar of music in my life, but I have felt it – Igor Stravinsky

~*~*~

**Abbasid Caliphate, Tikrit, on the banks of the Tigris River, 1132**

The sun has started its course down the sky a while ago already, but as always Yusuf does not feel the time passing when he’s in a city. He’s bought provisions for their travel, mostly essentials like food but also a new set of feathers to replace the last one that broke in his fingers and various items Nicolò needs.

They have found themselves in some precarious situations over the past years traveling together, as one do. But Yusuf drew the line at one concession he would ever make: he won’t eat a stew made without any spices. Or, well, any food really. Even in the hardest time, he kept some cinnamon and pepper and a couple of herbs on him, the bare minimum. There’s no point in eating food if there’s no taste to it he said one day, and he stands by that statement. Immortal or not they deserve some pleasure in life. Nicolò never mocked him for that, but he saw amusement in his eyes more than once. But after a month with him, Nicolò was just as glad for Yusuf’s little spice pouch in his bag and made sure to keep it full on his turns at the market.

He’s already missing their stay in Bagdad where they ate in a different establishment every day, tasting rich food all the time, and had access to bathes and libraries and all the finest artists and scholars in the world. But they must be on their way, they must travel. And on a horse, you do not have the luxury of a city.

Yusuf left for Damascus in the year 1129 after hearing about military movements by Franks army there, sounding too similar to what he heard thirty years ago. The only choice he found himself in was to go there to help in the fights, he couldn’t stay put, not after witnessing what happened in Bayt Al-Maqdis. After that day, after that massacre, he left the city to ride to his homeland and Mahdia, back to his family. He had three beautiful decades with them, still trading with his father and brothers, still carrying information and names along with goods, still trying his best to help his people and those in need because he could never sit by and watch without doing something. And the beard hides a lot of his face, but it had become obvious he isn’t getting any lines by his eyes, that his family is growing old and he’s not. He’d started seeing things in their eyes; fear, amongst others.

He thanked Allah for the chance to live with his family a few more years, but he understands his purpose, why he was given this gift of immortality. He left after saying goodbye, after giving his love and hugging them hard one last time, taking as many memories as he could. He drew one last sketch of his family and hid it close to his heart and rode into the sunset to Damascus, weapons by his side and the heart heavy. Yusuf truly felt all the weight of his grief when he got to the city of Qāhirat and realized he would never browse the market stands with his siblings ever again. He was alone, truly alone.

He walked away from his family; hurting for that but knowing it was the right choice to save them from the troubles he would inevitably bring along with his nature. There is a reason he was gifted this immortality.

He rode to Damascus alone, faster now that he could go freely without worrying about his nature being discovered. He knew where he was going, yet another war for the holy land that the Catholics are so interested in. Yusuf was expecting to meet again with the unkillable Frank wearing that damn cross over his chest they came up with during the years he was gone. Instead, he found him in plain clothes, the only relic of their first encounter the sword by his side, helping a family hide from the invading knights and fighting his brothers to keep the innocents safe.

The Frank saw him, and he was too far away to see his face clearly but his shoulders tightened, but before they could walk to each other Yusuf heard a cry and turned to help. The Frank was gone by the time he looked back.

Throughout the three months the army stayed near the city, they saw a lot of each other. Yusuf kept his eyes on the Frank, just in case, and even if the Frank seemed to see him every time, he never spoke about it. He fought against his kind, and never once raised a fist on Damascus’s citizens. More than once Yusuf was tempted to go seek a conversation with him, but the time never was right.

In December, when the army finally retreated in defeat, they faced off again. Yusuf drew his sword, followed by the Frank. And he wished for clarity of mind, but he still couldn’t erase the vision of blood flowing from under his eyelid, the red that tainted his dreams for decades, memories from a certain hell he wouldn’t wish upon anyone.

They killed each other twice, one of them ending with Yusuf’s skull split open and the Frank’s throat spilling out on the ground beneath their feet, when a voice interrupted them. Someone saw them come back from death and yelled heresy. Yusuf wanted to laugh at his word, but he saw two other knights coming along, and four Duqaq’s soldiers standing behind them, witnesses to their awakening. He took his sword and flee the scene, followed by the Frank.

It’s been two years now that they’re traveling together, and it’s not a situation he’s happy about, but it’s survival. At first, he didn’t trust the Frank to not reveal their secret, but it appeared quickly that it was safer to stay together, keeping an eye on their back. Two men traveling are always less suspicious than one alone, even if one of them still speaks like a foreigner. It’s easier to lay low and appear in peace when you know someone is guarding your camp, or you have an ally by your side. A reluctant ally, but an ally nonetheless.

They stay away from the big cities as much as possible, stick to the small road and travel to help those in need when they can. They make money by offering and selling their services to merchants, escorting them through bandit’s territories and dangerous regions, and it’s enough. Yusuf appreciates the opportunity to keep a connection to other beings, to learn about the politics and major events through sharing stories. When you’re always moving through countries you hear the freshest news, and know where to travel next.

*

They left Bagdad a few days ago, and they set camp in a nook near the Tigris, following the course of the river for their journey. Nicolò —the first word the Frank said after _despiaxûo_ , a language Yusuf did not recognize then, and then _ana asif_ in a very accented but earnest Arabic— is waiting for him there.

Nicolò did not repeat this word often, but he showed his shame and remorse enough for Yusuf to believe in his repentance. It took some time, but eventually, Yusuf no longer grabbed his knife as he went to sleep, and they started trading words along their long day of riding. Yusuf learned that he’s an early riser that will still need time before he can articulate any thought with him, and Nicolò now knows was inks he prefers for his work, what tea he enjoys the most. It’s small things he missed on his months traveling alone that he didn’t know he craved so much. But it appears having someone who knows what his favorites meals are was a smoothing balm his aching heart needed.

Yusuf is tucking his pouch under his tunic for the last time, ready to leave the market when he sees it. An old man, face weary and fingers crooked by time is throwing pieces of wood outside of his shop. An artisan, making fine instruments by the look of his crafts. Yusuf walks closer, just in time to see him grab an oud by the neck, and something in him pushes him to speak up.

“Wait!” He says, and the artisan stops. “Wait, why are you throwing it?”

“It is old. One of my first craft, not my best.” The man shrugs, still gripping the instrument. It is old yes, but it’s beautiful. He must be a fine artisan because the piece is exquisite for its age and the woodwork fine. The rose adorning the middle of the table is stunning, an homage to the best work that can be seen on the most holy architectures. “I am cleaning my shop, and no one wishes to buy this one.”

“Can I?”

“Buy it?”

“Yes.” Yusuf sees the face the artisan makes, and he halts, not sure how to justify his request. “I’ve been away from home, and it’s been years since I’ve played. I miss music. And I have good coins.” He takes a few out of his pouch, and the old man relaxes.

“Do what you wish with it, I have no use for this one. It is not my finest piece. I’ll ask you to keep my name secret, I do not wish to tarnish my legacy with this one.” He trades the instrument for the coins, and once in his hands Yusuf sees what he means. It doesn’t have the most perfect neck, and on closer look, the wood isn’t the healthiest either. And the headstock is slightly crooked. But he can’t bring himself to leave it here. It feels like a piece from home.

“Do you sell strings too?” He finds himself asking.

~*~*~

They are resting near Tikrit, on their way to Constantinople after leaving Bagdad. He and Yusuf stayed there for two weeks, vising the city, taking in everything it has to offer. Yusuf was particularly happy to see what the library still held on its shelves. It’s been years since he was there Yusuf told him, and the imperial library still has some precious documents even if the city has lost some of her shine from days gone by, he explained.

They have been fighting a lot recently, helping any way they can, but when Yusuf learned he never went to any big capitals yet, he set their way to the great city, to show him all it has to offer. It is prosperous these years Yusuf told him, and Nicolò trusts his every words. That man has more knowledge than Nicolò thought one could have, and he speaks three different languages as well as his own, and in two years he already learned his Ligurian. Nicolò still struggles with written Arabic after three decades of earnest but what ends up feeling futile efforts, and can count the number of sentences he can say in Greek and Persian on two hands. He is slow at those practices. He feels shameful that he took the art of the sword faster than the art of poetry.

So he does his best to remember what he can understand, to speak to Yusuf’s with the bit of Tounsi he’s sharing with him, to learn how to care for the wounds he no longer keeps but others still bear, and learn as much as he can from the people who he once thought were less than him when in fact they have so much more to offer than he could ever imagine.

Nicolò never left these lands, not since he arrived three decades ago. More time than he’d be proud to admit, he walked to a port, looking at the ships and wondering if he should go back. Each time, bile in his throat and an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach would keep him from setting a foot on deck. Apart from the obviously hard explanation he’d have to give, facing the city that made him what he is wasn’t a thought he liked. He did not wish to be disrespectful to his ancients and those who helped raise him. But he knows who made him believe in these fights. How he was too weak, too hateful, too sinful and too proud to see his wrongdoing. How many lives his madness took.

And so he stayed, and even though he did not understand the depth of it, he tried to make amend. He left Jerusalem and shed his armor. When a woman, two kids holding onto her skirts saw him and offered him a hand, despite his accent and sword at his side, he cried. She gave him some bread and he knew right there what he was supposed to do. He did it for years until he heard about Damascus and the army moving there. He knew what to expect, but seeing the man he killed so many times in Jerusalem wasn’t one of them. And after months of standoff, and despite what he did, the man grabbed his elbow and ran away with him. He let him stay by his side, let him eat his food and share his fire at night.

Nicolò doesn’t know what he did to deserve that, doesn't know if he'll ever be deserving of it, but he’s grateful that Yusuf —first thing he said to him, hand laid over his chest, eyes shining with life despite the obvious distrust— accepted to travel with him. Having someone like him, a brother in fate is a priceless gift from God. He knows not what he would have become, were he to not-die alone. A man he made his enemy is better than no one.

*

The sun is setting and Nicolò is putting his sword back to his scabbard when Yusuf finally comes back from the market. He’s carrying an odd object in his hand, and Nicolò sits up as Yusuf mount down his horse. It’s an instrument, one he’s seen before but never learned the name of. A big oval shape and many strings hanging taut over the wood.

“All fine?” He asks as Yusuf shakes the sand and dust that always comes with riding off his hair.

“All fine.” He takes his bag with him and gives it to Nicolò as he makes his way to his covers. “I got all of what we needed. They didn’t have any goat cheese, so I got sheep’s for you.” Nicolò opens the front lapel to look at the various fruits, vegetables, nuts and bread Yusuf could buy. Under in a tissue must be the cheese and more fragile items like honey and the dry meat. Those meats in markets are never as good as _khlea_ , a type of dry meat he ate with a Morocco traveler ages ago that he now can’t help but compare everything to; but it’s better than anything he ever tried to make himself, so he’s glad to see them in the bag.

“You found soap?”

“I did, it’s in the other one, with the grease for our leathers.” They finished their last parcel of beeswax and beef tallow a week ago, and their saddles and shoes are starting to suffer from the heat and sand they travel in.

“Good.” Nicolò doesn’t offer his help, and instead let Yusuf take care of his horse and saddle. Nicolò’s own horse is already in the shade, eating the grass he can find, and Yusuf’s golden stallion is pawing the ground, watching its brother with its bridles off already. By the time Yusuf’s done, the sun has met with the horizon.

Nicolò has already laid the skin of water by Yusuf’s pellet, so that he doesn’t have to look for it when he picks up his mat for his prayer. It’s a ritual now, and neither of them acknowledges it, but it always eases some of Nicolò’s guilt to see Yusuf accept his help, his offers of peace.

~*~*~

It’s been three days since their last stop at the market, and Yusuf has not touched the oud once. It sits over his bags, secured by strings and cords, and at night he lays it with his saddle, propped up so the head doesn’t touch the dirt. But he doesn’t play it, barely looks at it.

“I don’t play music.” Yusuf says in the silence as they eat a fresh stew of a few birds they caught this afternoon.

“Oh.”

“I see you looking at the oud.” He says. “I don’t play.”

“May I ask why?” And Yusuf shrugs, looks up from his bowl for a moment before he speaks.

“It is not for me. My art is in words, poetry, and in figures over papers. I was taught the oud, and the gasba by my mother like all of my siblings were. But it is not for me. I do not hear the music; I am too focused on the techniques. I miss on the art by trying to make it.”

“So you don’t like music.” Nicolò is trying to understand.

“I do. I love it even. But I’d rather be the one listening rather than making it.” At Nicolò’s confusion, he explains himself. “When I am in my art, I shut off the outside world to only think about what I’m making. But I cannot see the entire piece before I’m done. I can allow myself this level of concentration with my poetry or my charcoal because when I’m done I can look at it as much as I want. I cannot hear music once it’s gone in the wind.”

“I see.” Nicolò nods, spoon another piece of meat into his mouth. He’s not sure he’ll ever know what he means, but he can understand the principle of it.

“And you, did you have music in Genoa?”

“We did.” He looks at the stew, try to keep his heart from hurting at the thought of his shores. He misses them. “Not much for me, but in mass there was singing.” He never found the appeal in the music, too stern, too caged in rules and codes, but the words addressed to God were enough for him then. He’s not sure that would be enough now.

Yusuf nods, and leave it at that. They finish their meal and clean up, and Yusuf takes off his boots with a content sigh, let the sand trickle out of them before he sits on his covers. Nicolò closes his eyes and listens to the fire, and the animals around. He wouldn’t have believed that so many creatures would roam such a place, but the desert is full of surprises. He hears Yusuf stand up, and look through his bags. He doesn’t think much of it until the footstep comes closer. He opens his eyes to see Yusuf sitting down next to him, with the oud in one hand and a bared feather in the other.

“Yusuf?”

“Let me show you.” And so Nicolò does not try to speak again.

Over his crossed legs, Yusuf lay the oud horizontally, and his left hand curls around the neck of the instrument. The taut strings are shining with the fire, and Nicolò watches as Yusuf let his fingers run over them, pinching them and pushing against the wood in various places. He’s obviously trying to remember things, but Nicolò knows not what they are.

Then he grasps the feather in his other hand, the right one, and he tucks it under his fingers. He uses the hard tip of the feather to pluck a string, and it’s louder than Nicolò was expecting. Yusuf chuckles at his startle, but soon enough his face is brought down by intense concentration, eyebrows creased and his two hands work together to bring out sweet melody out of the oud.

Nicolò watches, fascinated, as the song stretches. It’s nothing like he remembers hearing in his church. There are so many more notes, so much more _life_ in the song. It’s nothing like the stern and rigid choirs he remembers. This music here feels something, and tries to make others feel it too. His heart is trying to break free of his chest and he can’t look away from Yusuf’s hands.

“Yusuf,” he says when he stops and take the feather away from the strings. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s a simple song. One of the first I learned, it’s for beginners.”

“It is still beautiful.”

“Here.” And Yusuf is handing him the oud.

“What?”

“Here, take it. I’ll teach you.”

“Oh.” He takes the instrument, the wood slightly warm from Yusuf’s body, and he holds it awkwardly, not sure what to do. “Are you sure?”

“I am. You’ve been looking at this poor oud for days now, I think I better teach you now before you try on your own and I have to listen to your attempts at playing for weeks on end.” He says with mirth, and Nicolò feels heat on his cheeks. He looks down and tries to place the oud over his lap like he saw Yusuf do.

“No, more on your left. Yes, here. And put your forearm like that.” Yusuf takes his wrist and pushes his arm in place. His fingers feel cool around his wrist. Nicolò shivers and calms his breath. “Good, now take this.” He’s handing him one of his feathers. His good quills that he keeps safe in a pouch inside another one tucked at the bottom of his bag because it’s precious, and good quills are rare. This one has been bared leaving only the hard core, and cut at about a third of its length, leaving it as long as a palm.

Nicolò knows how precious quill and feathers are. He was never a scribe, and he only learned enough Latin to read all but the most basic. But he used to watch kid chases gooses around the nearby monastery. The monks wouldn’t do that and let the youngest of them ran after angry birds, finding the right feathers for the work. He knows how much care and preparation are needed, the bath of hot sand to harden them and the careful trimming of all the barbs and cutting the tip in the correct shape. It’s work, fine work, precise work. You need big birds with strong wings for the best quills, he doubts they have any goose here so it must be from an eagle or some kind of bird of prey. It isn’t cheap to find good feathers.

“Are you sure?” Nicolò knows he’s repeating himself, but he can’t think of an occasion where Yusuf would give one of his quills to anyone.

“I’m sure. How would you play without a _risha_ anyway? Pinch it between your thumb, index and middle finger.” Nicolò has to shake his head before he can follow Yusuf’s instruction, and he tells himself he’ll think about the reasoning behind that gift later. “Yes, like that. Now, the feather must lay over your palm, and the rest you hold between your fourth and last finger, poking out of your closed fist. Yes, like that.”

~*~*~

For the next three months, every night, given that they’re not helping or nursing a death or two, after their prayers and meal, Yusuf sit with Nicolò on his covers and he teaches him what he knows about the oud.

They start by reviewing maqâmât, scales of notes built from numerous ajnas —smaller groups of notes— used to play songs Yusuf tells him, and Nicolò dutifully learns all of them and their names. He recognized one, the _Ajam maqâm_ , for he heard the same notes in his land as he was growing up. But the others were as foreign to his ears as Arabic once was. He was more than eager to learn to love them too.

He learned about the nine main maqâmât and the numerous ways possible to combine them that makes up the rest of the maqâmât. Yusuf told him the sub maqâmât are counted in hundreds but that there are infinite possibilities for them, and that knowledge makes Nicolò’s head feel dizzy. It’s overwhelming for him who all he ever heard was a culmination of twelve different notes, only allowed four different combinations of them. He drinks it all like a thirsty man lost in a desert would with an oasis, and it awakens many feelings in his heart. Nicolò always thought music was dull, that it wasn’t for him. Now, he craves their nightly lessons more and more with each passing day.

Yusuf tells him how all those maqâmât are connected to the element, to the day or the night, and how each one of them has a character, an emotion in it. Maqâm Rast symbolizes pride and power but also the soundness of mind, masculinity. The maqam Bayati represents vitality, joy, and femininity. Saba is sorrow, pain and lamentation while the maqâm Sikah expresses love. There are families of maqâm with common emotions; some maqâm do not go together, are not to be mixed, while others should be used together. They have each a rhythm that differs, there are rules, more rules than he thought could exist for such an art but with time he learns to hear them in the music Yusuf plays him to help him understand better.

*

Once Nicolò has memorized some of them, Yusuf tells him about the iqa‘at, how important rhythm is to the music, as much as the notes and that he needs to feel it as much as the melody. It is hard, until one day the knowledge somehow settles in his mind and he feels in his hands more than understand what he needs to do. And then Yusuf tells him about the importance of improvisation and how to craft a melody that is both pleasing and beautiful. How important it is to use many maqâmât and switch between them, that this is the art of music.

The first time he perfectly copies one melody after Yusuf played it, his companion’s smile feels like the greatest reward. Followed closely by the satisfaction he feels after producing something beautiful, a piece of art for the very first time in his long life. That’s the night, sitting under the stars with a man that was still a stranger not so long ago, that he feels proud of his actions for the first time in a long time. He does not cry, but that day as they go sleep he gives a prayer for Yusuf, to protect him from any harm, to grant him peace and happiness he much deserves for helping Nicolò even as he’s not trying to, just because that’s the kind of man he is.

*

After an entire moon cycle of those lessons, Yusuf taught him a song for the first time. It’s the one he played all those nights ago when he first showed the oud, and it takes Nicolò four nights of work before he can struggle his way through it somewhat smoothly. The next new moon, he knows three more songs, and Yusuf winces less and less at his mistakes.

He finds himself greatly enjoying it. He realizes that he does not encounter the same troubles as Yusuf when playing. His mind does not get stuck on the technicalities. He can focus all of his attention, and through the motion he feels everything down to his bone, he can see in his mind the musical tapestry he’s weaving with the notes he’s playing. He tries to describe the feeling one night and Yusuf laughs. He tells him that he’s lucky, because this isn’t what he feels at all when he plays. He says Allah must have given him more than one gift, and that he ought to keep the oud. Now in the morning, it’s Nicolò who ties the instrument to his saddle, no longer Yusuf.

Nicolò has trouble to word how grateful he is, so he resolves himself to learn how to play it well enough so that Yusuf does not have to watch over him anymore.

~*~*~

Half a year later, around yet another fire, Nicolò picks up the oud on his own, and Yusuf stays by his pallet and listens with a pleased expression on his face. Nicolò’s heart swell with pride and warmth.

“You’ve learned all I could teach you.” He tells him, and there’s regret in his voice weaved with approval. “Now you have to keep working on your own. I’m sure we’ll meet many great musicians on our travels who you will be able to share knowledge with.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up for a story that’s not actually that long but took me an entire month to finish writing because my dumdum brain just wouldn’t get on the program.
> 
> I won’t repeat it for every chapter but this statement can be applied to every instrument and music genre you’ll read about in this fic: I barely scratched the surface of how deep Arabic music is, and how fascinating it is. If you have time, do yourself a favor go look into it if you don’t know it because you’ll discover many great musicians and pieces.
> 
> Lots of love and an indecent amount of instruments and music descriptions incoming…


	2. A dizi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is more to the world than his oud. On a journey with Andromache and Quỳnh, Nicolò will enjoy sharing music and sharing time with his family.

**The Great Steppes, Kama River, a week west from the Ural Mountains, 1153**

The plains are vast and unforgiving. Nicolò has already died twice, once surprised by a wild horse that kicked his head, the second after they ran out of water and Nicolò gave his skin to Yusuf. It’s not until he woke up on his back, thirst and hunger gone that he realized what happened. He’s starting to understand Andromache better now that they’re dwelling on her lands.

They were fighting in the Principality of Antioch when Yusuf witnessed an arrow piercing one of the women from their dream's neck, only to see her wank it out and shoot one in retaliation. They have been traveling with those two ancient souls since then. It’s been over four years now, and they’re only starting to grasp the immensity of their mind. The women judged their experience too shallow and took them on a journey through the world. They marched and rode and swam through Africa from north to south and west to east and two more times after that, listening to their tales and lessons, taking it all in. Nicolò who had only ever known his Mediterranean coast and the Arabic lands, and Yusuf who heard of the rest of the world only from books, they were both trying to understand the vast amount of knowledge they were giving them. Yusuf was the most thirsty of the two, always seeking more and more to know. It took Nicolò more time to put his worries at ease and let himself appreciate the new sights and the beauty of the unknown he now had the opportunity to discover.

They made their way back to Jerusalem a few full moons ago, and from then never stopped walking north. Andromache says she’s taking them to her homeland, and after that, Quỳnh promised to show them where she comes from, mirth in her eyes. They offered their help to a convoy of merchants who are taking goods from Ottoman lands back to theirs in Asia. The majority are from Catai, some from the most southern lands and others from tribes who live in no set country but in constant movement. It is a big convoy, and most days they are walking separated from each other, covering as much of the numerous carriages as they can, but it’s good sometimes to have time with your own thoughts. It is good at least for Nicolò who seldom has time to reflect and has no words on his tongue but only unvoiced thoughts in his head. He missed the silence.

“We’ll soon reach the Ural Mountains.” Andromache said this morning as they all let their horses drink their fill and planed the day of walking.

“I know these mountains!” Yusuf had said with a smile. “A friend traveled there once, decades ago but I never saw them myself.” Nicolò once again marveled at the depth of Yusuf’s knowledge, but he’s since long learned to not resent his own shortcomings. He has the time to rectify that problem. They parted ways after wishes of luck and fortune and Nicolò took his place as the third. Andromache is leading along with the chief of the expedition, Yusuf ride after her, protecting the young and most precious good. Quỳnh closes the march, far behind, bow kept close to her saddle. He may not know all about them, but he knows that Quỳnh never misses a mark, even miles away. She strikes faster than anyone he ever saw in a fight.

It is summer in the Steppes, and even though the sun is blazing above them, burning Nicolò’s pale skin off of his nose and forehead, again and again, they need high collars against the wind and at night sleep under furs and covers near fires. Just like in the desert, once the sun is gone the cold claim the land for itself.

The weather isn’t kind to the oud he kept safe with him for years, but Nicolò refuses to part with it, the first gift of Yusuf to him. He deems it worth the trouble of wrapping it in a blanket and keeping it tucked away in the merchant’s trailers.

~*~*~

They are setting camp along the Kama for the last time, after this night they’ll go deeper into the steppes. As always, the four warriors set their own pellets on the side of the main settling all while talking about the day of riding they’ve done. Yusuf complained about the lack of distraction from the monotonous task of riding and Andromache promised to have the kids walk along with him to keep him occupied for the rest of the travel. Nicolò listened quietly, taking in the new landscape and the multitude of languages around him.

They washed the dust as best as they could in the river and ate in their privacy like they always do. But after enough discussion with the merchants, Nicolò had trouble understanding but got enough from the tones; the four immortals sat with the rest of the convoy around the two big fires. They tend to keep to themselves, sit around their own encampment to make sure no mention of their gift is heard, and to keep each other safe. Blades for hire are not always the most appreciated in the world, but, to their surprise, these people have been more than welcoming. Andromache said it’s because they usually make this travel on their own, exposed to all threat. Having warriors with them put their minds at ease.

He’s not sure what the merchants are celebrating, but after their meal, a young woman brought him his oud and tugged him where other men with instruments were sitting, surrounded by everyone. Didn’t need a translation from Andromache to get what they wanted from him. Yusuf pushed him to go with laughter and words of encouragement.

He sat around the fire under cheering and cry of joy. They communicated in broken Latin and Greek and Nicolò managed to understand that they wanted to play with him, and he quickly saw why. The musicians brought out numerous instruments, two skin drums one large and one smaller as well as many kinds of flute and a drum Nicolò never saw before but still could recognize as a davul from one of Yusuf’s books he read. There was one instrument with strings, but the woman playing it had a bow with it and used it to stroke the strings instead of plucking them as Nicolò does with his oud. They were excited to play with a different kind of instrument, and Nicolò is as just as happy to share music with others. It’s been a while since he had to opportunity to play with other travelers.

Nicolò took the _risha_ tucked under the strings in his hand and quickly tuned the instrument while the others were getting ready as well. He was somehow aware of the three other immortals still sitting near their small fire, all watching him. They were too far away to make out their faces though, but he could see in their shoulders they were just as interested as the rest of the convoy at the music about to be played.

He is hesitant at first, never having played with flutes before, but the drums are familiar enough for him to get into the rhythm. Nicolò let himself be taken away by the music, by the melody and the singing of the instrument. There are trials and errors, but he ends up finding some maqâmât to go along with the Steppes music. They are using scales more similar to the Arabic system he learned years ago than the one he grew up with and for that he is thankful.

The blending of tones is strange, uncanny even until it doesn’t. And suddenly, the oud is singing along the flutes and lyres and they’re weaving something stunning and moving and nothing like he heard before.

They play for a long time; they change tunes numerous times and Nicolò is even pressed to play a traditional piece. He looks at Yusuf as he chose the first song he taught him. He sees Yusuf clap and yells something at him but he doesn’t hear it over the merchant’s exclamations. It does bring him a smile. They play long enough for the fire to falter and to need to be fed wood again, long enough for Quỳnh to join the circle and dance along with the other women, laughter in the air. They play long enough for him to tire and for the music to turn to traditional chants he does not know and cannot harmonize with. He thanks the musicians near him and silently retreat to their own little fire where his companions are sitting with a piece of dry meat in his hand and a kiss from a woman. He hides the heat in his cheeks and quietly sits down with them.

“Nicolò! That was fantastic!” Yusuf congratulates him. “It was beautiful.”

“Not as beautiful as that girl.” Andromache teases him with a knowing smirk.

“It’s nothing.”

“You did get a kiss from her.” Quỳnh tells him over his shoulder, appearing from nowhere and startling him. “You left me! You could have danced with me.” She picks the skin of wine and sits by Andromache, cheeks red with heat and her hair disheveled.

“I cannot dance. I can barely play and that’s only thanks to Yusuf’s tutoring.”

“That’s not what I would call barely play Nicolò. Give yourself some credits, you are a great musician.” Quỳnh is always the first to argue, about anything, at any time. Sometimes she’s wrong, but he only saw two instances of a mistake on her part. It is frustrating to know she’s telling the truth and all you can do is accept it.

“Maybe.” He looks down at his hands, embarrassed. He never liked compliments showered over him.

“Every girl here had eyes for you only.”

“Ha.” He chuckles. “That’s because I’m playing something they do not know. It is curiosity, not attraction.” He watches as Yusuf put more wood into their fire to keep it alive a bit longer. The laughter around them dies down a little and they sit in silence for a while, listening to the merchant’s celebration and singing.

“I did not know you played so well Nicolò.” Andromache says, and Nicolò doesn’t know what to read in the look she gives him.

“Well, not like we had a lot of time for me to show you.” They had pretty busy days, and they usually ended too tired to joke around at night. They only knew he played because he once entertained children in a village, and he played simple tunes to amuse them. He wasn’t looking for art. “Do you play music?” He asks her.

“I do. A bit of everything. Music was easier to learn than telling tales for me.”

“She’s quite good at the flute.” Quỳnh says with a smirk. There’s a joke laying in the glee that’s in her voice, and he knows it’s yet another memory they share that he knows he won’t ever be private to. He and Yusuf have some, but he’s sure their number of shared jokes pales in comparison to theirs. They had millenniums together after all.

“Care to show us?” Yusuf asks, and Quỳnh is up before he can finish his sentence.

“I’ll go borrow a flute from Kan T’ien.” And she’s gone, Andromache’s protests dying on her lips.

“You really still try to reason with her when she put her mind to something?” Yusuf teases her, and Andromache turns her lips into a frown but Nicolò can see how she’s looking at Quỳnh. She doesn’t mind it one bit.

“There’s still hope one day I’ll achieve something.”

“And maybe the sun will stop rising.” Yusuf is laughing, and it’s a lovely sound. He likes it better when his friends are happy. They had a hard time last winter and he’s glad to see the smiles back on their faces.

“Here.” Quỳnh is handing Andromache a long flute carved out of bamboo. “It’s a dizi, and we have to give it back before they start on the dancing songs again.”

“If you insist.” Andromache concedes with much joy, and she looks at Nicolò. “Ready when you are.”

He forgoes the more lively tunes he played before and instead he chooses something gentler but just has hopeful in tune. He is happy. Andromache let him play for a while before joining him, and she didn’t lie. She is extremely good at the flute, it sounds like a bird is singing with him, nothing like a human instrument. He doesn’t know how she does it but she’s a truly talented musician.

Soon enough, Quỳnh joins them with her voice. She’s singing in her first language, and he only learned enough for simple conversation so he’s not sure what she’s singing about but it goes nicely with the tune. She and Andromache share a look, something profound, deeper than he saw between any human and he wonders how he and Yusuf look at each other. Yusuf who has started clapping a rhythm for them, who is smiling bright and big. He is beautiful in the light of the fire.

They do, sadly, have to stop when someone at the merchant’s fire waves at them. Quỳnh seems more at peace by the time the music dies and quiet comes back.

“You are talented Andromache. It was lovely.” Yusuf says as he takes the dizi from her. “I’m going to give it back. I want to ask Kan T’ien about how it’s made, I’ve never seen any flute like this one.”

“Suit yourself. You’re doing me a service here.” She nods and he happily goes to join the woman who landed them the instrument. Nicolò isn’t surprised when he sits down with the woman. He can only see half of his face but he recognizes the look of joy he gets when he finds someone to argue with, share knowledge and stories like he loves to do.

“I’ve missed your music, Andromache.” Quỳnh confesses, eyes lost in the distance. “We should do this more often; this is quite pleasant.”

After yet another sip from the skin of wine, Quỳnh excuses herself for a moment, and Yusuf is still talking with Kan T’ien but now he’s agitating his hands around. This seems to be an animated conversation. His arms are raised and he’s grinning, concentration in his eyes. Nicolò looks back at Andromache just in time to catch the face she makes as she watches Quỳnh walk away.

“She is dear to you.” He means to ask, but it’s more of an affirmation.

“She is my life.” Andromache answers, without any doubt in her voice. “She’s everything for me. Dear doesn’t even begin to cover what I feel for her.” He understands what she’s saying. Has understood quite early in their travel with them.

He can’t say he’s ever been comfortable with two women together like he has never really been for two men. But he left Genova a long time ago, and he learned a lot since then. He learned about the world, about his ignorance. And he learned about things he refused to see in his heart. There’s a reason the celibacy he chose along with the priesthood unlike so many of his kin was such an attractive prospect to him. He was simply too shameful back then to admit it had nothing to do with a love for God.

“It took us a long time, for our hearts to grow feelings.” The way Andromache’s looking at him, Nicolò knows she means something more. He pretends to not understand what exactly.

~*~*~

The moon kept her course in the sky as they talked quietly, and the noises around them start to die down. Nicolò shares wine with Andromache, listen to Quỳnh and Yusuf go at one of their wit battles once again. They are throwing lines of poetry and wisdom until they trade off jokes and then stories from their first lives. And then nothing, just a comfortable silence between them.

He’s not sure how but Quỳnh somehow managed to pick up his oud he laid by his pallet, she’s handing it to him.

“Play me some lullabies Nicolò.” She asks, and how can he refuse her anything? The smile the first notes brings her is the best gift he could wish for. Everything is quiet between them, except from the oud’s chant, something soft and smooth and gentle to escort the moon in her descent. They do not need words. Never did, never will because their bond runs deeper than that.

Nicolò isn’t sure what pushes him, but he cannot help it when he decides to sing for them. He’s been practicing, all on his own, some melody and how to make sure his voice goes nicely with the instrument. He always felt somewhat ridicule, singing nonsense, but he tried to do so with some poems and it felt less wrong then. But this time, it feels right. It feels right because he’s singing a poem that has been branded in his mind for years.

It’s the first one he ever read of Yusuf. He did not mean to, but some of his papers had fallen out of his bag and he picked them up. His eyes read the words before he could realize there was no name at the bottom of the poem, one written by Yusuf, kept for himself. He sang praises to the moon and the sun, to the perfection of Allah found in every aspect of life, to the love he felt in any breathing thing, in any pair of eyes, in every word spoken. Not a day pass where he does not think about the beauty Yusuf lays across his papers.

Nicolò still remember every word despite the years that have passed. Yusuf did not remember that, if the look on his face is anything to go by.

The first few sentences he did not say anything, but Nicolò was watching him. He witnesses the very moment Yusuf realizes what the words are. His eyes opened and found Nicolò’s and he sat up, immediately. Quỳnh and Andromache both looked at him, certainly with wonder but Nicolò wouldn’t know, for all his attention was directed on Yusuf. And after a moment of held breath, Yusuf smiles, his big, wonderful smile that Nicolò has become so familiar with. He smiles and his head leans slightly to the side and he lay one hand over his chest. Over his heart. It makes Nicolò shiver.

It is the first time he sees how Yusuf looks at him when he plays. He knows he's looking every time he takes the oud because he always has his entire body and head turned toward him, but Nicolò never got to watch how he looks at him.

He always thought he might have a teacher's eyes, on the lookout for the faintest mistake or slip up. He does not know what to think of the contentment that stretches gently over his face, nor with the kind eyes that shines in the night. It’s more than appreciation, more than curiosity and it squeezes Nicolò’s heart with overwhelming emotions. He looks down at his fingers for lack of a better reaction, and he feels his cheeks burning. Yusuf does not look away and Nicolò forces air into his lungs, if only to live the next few seconds to marvel at how warm Yusuf makes his heart feel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and Kudos are welcomed and encouraged by the author (me). Love to see your thoughts!


	3. The gasba

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicolò tries to learn how to play the gasba. This effort appears to be fruitless. Until it isn't anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would apologize for those two chapters without much regarding any guitar parents but it’s actually not my fault so it’s all good. Middle Ages in Europe were rough and not much was invented before the Renaissance (and discovering Arabic scientists, artists and philosophers and taking the knowledge home). And I would like for them to not pine for three centuries before they get together so yeah, making concessions here.
> 
> So I’m giving you a chapter about the absence of the oud and we’ll come back to the guitar timeline soon.

**Al-Andalus, on the road to Córdoba, banks of the al-wādī l-kabīr, 1184**

“Side of the mouth Nicolò. Not front.” It’s the tenth time he reminds him, and Nicolò sighs. Again.

“I can’t.” He lay the gasba over his laps and rack his hands through his hair, groaning in frustration.

“Sure you can.” It’s a hollow encouragement, and it doesn’t seem to help the Genevan.

The oud broke. About a week ago they got in a pretty bad fight in an inn, and the men followed them outside. In the confusion of the fight, someone kicked Nicolò’s horse who bucked, and the oud fell. Which of the horse or one of the men did it they don’t know. But when the dust settled, all that was left of the instrument was a pile of wood and a mess of string barely holding the headstock and table together.

They had this instrument for fifty years. Half a century. It followed them everywhere. And Yusuf is learning to not get too attached to material things, he lived an entire lifetime and still hasn’t a single line by his eyes to prove it. But it still hurt, to see this beautiful piece of craft, linked to so many memories in crumbles. Nicolò didn’t say anything, only picked up the oud and put it back on his saddle.

For two days he didn’t speak a word until Yusuf pushed the issue and he finally admitted his hurt. Yusuf knows how those Catholics are with possession and the idea of poverty and property. But Nicolò didn’t feel shame for some vain feelings. No, after a long time trying to get something of substance from him, Nicolò only said: “You gave me that oud.”

“That’s the first gift you gave me Yusuf.” He explained. “I’m upset it got destroyed in such a stupid way. I should’ve been more careful.” And Yusuf knows how his heart is feeling these days. It wasn’t hard for him to realize what he felt for Nicolò. It was a different matter to accept them, to accept that his heart chose him, the man who haunted his nightmares before finding a place into his dreams.

But after many sleepless nights, he came to peace with that knowledge. And it’s only then that he could see that, as subdued and quiet Nicolò is, he felt more too. To say he would accept these feelings as Yusuf do, that is another question. They come from very different places that Yusuf hasn’t heard much about, and that Nicolò doesn’t willingly offer knowledge of either. But Nicolò always takes the first watch at night when they travel so that Yusuf can be awake for salat al-fajr. He always let him have the last piece of bread or the last sip of the water. He always smiles at Yusuf’s poetry, even the bad ones. Some things don’t lie.

A dull but somehow, and that’s surprising coming from this instrument in particular, piercing sound startles him out of his thoughts.

“Sorry.” Nicolò sighs drop and the flute again. That must be his hundredth try, Yusuf has stopped counting long ago.

He found a spot on the river a few days ago where there was some great reed for a gasba. Yusuf never made one but he learned to play it and one of his neighbors in Mahdia used to make them, and he trusts enough in his memories to be sure it’ll come out great. And it did. Nicolò questioned him every night as he sat at their fires and carved the reed until he was satisfied with its shape. He tried the instrument when Nicolò was at the market buying them provision, and he gifted him the flute when he came back in the late afternoon. He thoughts that having a new instrument, a new gift given from his hand would soothe the hurt Nicolò feels.

They’ve been at it for hours, sitting side by side on Nicolò’s covers, and he still hasn’t made one single clear note out of the flute. There are tears in Nicolò’s eyes, born out of pure frustration, and now Yusuf is starting to think it wasn’t such a great idea.

“Come, I’ll show you again.” He takes the gasba and he’s sure that’s a desperate whine in Nicolò’s throat. “Side of the mouth, pinch your lips, and blow.” Even he is starting to lose hope. It isn’t an easy instrument by any means. But after this much time, students generally already have some of the basics.

“I’m no good Yusuf. It’s hopeless.” He doesn’t even take the gasba back when Yusuf offers it. “I just can’t with this instrument.” He looks away and hugs himself, jaw clenched. “I miss the oud.” It’s whispered, and full of bile. Yusuf isn’t sure to which it is directed, the men from the accident or himself.

They have been traveling together for fifty-five years now, and they have grown close, closer than he was to anyone before. He knows this man sitting in front of him. And as intimidating as it may be, Nicolò knows him, everything he is, everything he was. When they fight, they do so as one, back to back and swords two halves of the same. When they travel, they do it as one. Even at night, when they’re alone, Yusuf feels like he can bare his soul to Nicolò without any fear or shame.

Their dynamic has rather settled for all this time, they had fallen into habits. Until about a month ago when they parted way with Quỳnh and Andromache Nicolò woke up with Yusuf’s name on his lips. His eyes found immediately and the wave of relief that washed his face awoke many feelings in Yusuf’s heart. He turned a deep shade of red and refused to speak about it. Yusuf has been debating what to do about this, and it seems he finally made up his mind.

“Nicolò.”

“Mhh.”

“Nicolò, look at me.” And he does, his eyes leave the ground behind to focus entirely on Yusuf. “It doesn’t matter if you’re good or not at the gasba. I don’t care, and you shouldn’t either. So what if this instrument is not for you? It’s not the end of the world.”

“Oh.” He says, and he uncrosses his arms, let them fall by his side. He bares himself to Yusuf again, that easily. All signs of frustration have been wiped off his face.

“I’m sorry about the oud, I really am. I miss hearing you play as much as you do. But it had a long life, better than it would have had with anyone else; we had a great time with it. And we’ll find another in Córdoba if you so wish, and we can make new memories with this one. But all of that wouldn’t matter if you weren’t with me here. I still have you by my side, and to be quite frank, that is all I can care about.”

“ _Oh_.” He repeats, his voice a bit more dumbfounded. Yusuf is proud of many things in his life, but the fact that he knows this man so well? That they grew a trust and a love between them despite everything in their life, everything that should have driven them apart but only made their connection stronger? That he is proud of.

These words seemed to have been what Nicolò needed to hear because he laid his hands over his laps and looked a lot more at peace than he was a few moments ago. Yusuf takes the gasba and tucks it away within their bags. He’ll gift it to someone in the next town, he has no interest in playing it and neither does Nicolò.

They share a moment of silence where they can only stare at each other, air thick between them but it’s interrupted by a sudden crack in the fire, and Yusuf takes his eyes off Nicolò to watch it, make sure it’s not dying nor growing wild. He can sense Nicolò’s thinking, certainly choosing his words like he always does. He doesn’t speak before thinking, hasn’t in a long time. Now he stretches the silence to make sure he carries his thoughts correctly from his mind to someone else’s.

“Yusuf.” He finally says, a copy of their earlier conversation.

“Yes?” 

“I love you.” He looks up at Nicolò who is worrying his lips between his teeth. “I wanted to say, I think I love you but- I know that. I’ve known for so long. And I do not mean like a brother or a friend. It’s more than that. I love you, Yusuf. More than I ever thought one could love another. I would be lost in this world if it wasn’t for you.”

“Nicolò.” Yusuf can only gasps, mind rushing. His heart might burst out of his chest. He wasn’t expecting the words to come from him first. It is, after all, a recurrent joke between them that Yusuf plays with the languages better than him.

“You do not have to say anything Yusuf.” Nicolò rushes. “I know I won’t ever be deserving of your love, like I am not of your kindness, like I don’t deserve to share your days. But I cannot hide my feelings any longer. And—”

“Do you know how long I have yearned for your embrace?” Yusuf asks him, he has to cut what he’s saying because they both have been waiting for a long time, and he cannot wait anymore. Nicolò closes his mouth so fast that he hears the teeth clicking.

There’s a moment of stillness where everything around them, even the moon, have stopped, leaving them all alone in the world to stare at each other. Yusuf takes the first step, touch his hand to Nicolò’s neck who immediately presses against his palm as a cat would.

“Yusuf.” He whispers, and his eyes are shinning, so big, so beautiful. He can see himself in them. He doesn’t wait any longer, with a gentle push he brings their faces closer, and it’s Nicolò who surges forward in an eager display of desire. 

Nicolò’s lips are malleable under his own, and rough from the winds. There’s a moment of stillness, of hesitation in front of everything that this touch brings inside them. Until Nicolò tilts his head and suddenly they fit together perfectly, flute and everything else long forgotten. All Yusuf cares about his getting his hand at the crook of his neck, and he relishes in the feeling of Nicolò’s fingers fisting his tunic at his hips, desperate enough to not care about the garment but only about not letting go.

They part for a moment, a smile of euphoria on both their faces, and Nicolò is the most beautiful thing he’s seen in years, right there, just in front of his eyes. His poetic thoughts are quickly shut down when Nicolò presses a kiss, and another one on his lips, and soon enough all Yusuf can think of is how happy, and grateful he is that he gets to have this gift and this man by his side for eternity.

“I was gifted not with immortality, but a life by your side.” Nicolò whisper into his neck, an echo of his own thought, and he feels his hands grabbing his clothes.  
“I love you, Nicolò.” It feels right to confess his feelings out loud, like a piece that finally fit within his heart. The smile on Nicolò’s face is the brightest he’s ever seen on him.

~*~*~

There’s laughter shared and more kisses and embraces until sleep finally dawns on them, and Yusuf does not install his pallet. Instead, he fit himself with Nicolò under his covers, hands linked and sharing the same breath, staring at each other in the comfort of the dying fire. Yusuf let his thumb plays with the skin at his cheek, at his jaw, his lips, marveling that he can now touch him so. Despite the dark, he can see everything of him, the smallest details of his face, the light of fire dancing on his brows.

“When did you realize you loved me?” He asks, curious to know for how long he was in Nicolò’s heart.

“Do you remember when we helped those merchants in the Steppes and I played with them? When Andromache played the flute for us?”

“It was decades ago Nicolò.” There’s a shadow of a smile passing on his face and his hand squeezes Yusuf’s.

“I know. It wasn’t as deep as it is today, but I saw it in my heart, the love I have for you.” He seems embarrassed by his confession, and Yusuf can see him worry the inside of his cheek again before releasing a breath and looking back at him. “What about you?”

“I knew I would agree to travel with you when you helped a kid who fell and spoiled the food in her basket with dirt and you gave her all the meat you had in your bag so she wouldn’t be scolded by her mother. You know, your favorite that you always make me buy in Morocco. But I knew my love for you at Is-Siġġiewi. You looked so peaceful, sitting at the shore, telling me stories of your childhood, your family. There was such kindness in your eyes every time you said your sister’s names. And then you called mine, and kind isn’t enough to express what you had in your voice for me. That’s when I realized I would willingly let my heart be bound to yours, for now and ever.”

“Yusuf.” Nicolò says softly, just for him to hear, and he isn’t sure what he’s asking for but the desperation, the love in this simple word is overwhelming. Yusuf can hardly begin to understand how he’ll get to hear him say it for decades to come, but he cherishes that knowledge like he does the feeling of his hands in his.

Yusuf repeats his name in kind, a name he won’t ever tire of. And this kiss is sweet like honey, the next one sweeter and every other brings him closer to pure nectar. He now understands what the Greek deities felt every time they drank ambrosia, for he is tasting its very source on Nicolò’s lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to play a flute once and I just couldn’t wrap my brain around how it works. I truly did my best and the couple of notes I managed to produce sounded awful. I fully projected on Nicky with that chapter. You can be good with certain instruments (or a family of instruments) and just absolutely pathetic with others.


	4. Guitarra Latina & Guitarra Morisca

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time marches on and humanity follows. Everything changes, and they cannot go against it. On the road to Yusuf’s homeland, they come across a new instrument.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry for the delay but writing about Joe and Nicky was making me feel sad (isn’t it fun to be all alone and single in quarantine time?). Also, my classes started again and the whole anxiety of studying at my university and living in a high covid transit city in a region with a pretty big transmission rate is… a lot to deal with, to say the least. The stress level went through the roof and coping with it is hard. It took a toll on my creative juice and the energy I have to give to writing.
> 
> So I took a break from the fic but now I’m back. I have two chapters done ahead that only need editing so I should be more consistent in my posting from now on.

**Kingdom of Castile, Toledo, 1353**

There’s a city near but they do not have the courage to be in the midst of a crowd. Their skin feels too thin, too flayed to stay near others. The slightest touch would set Nicolò’s nerves ablaze and he sees how on edge Yusuf is. His eyes are dropping with exhaustion like always after a bad fight and still, he is on the lookout, his head snaping left and right at the slightest noise. They wouldn’t be any good in a society right now; they need to settle down and find their footing again before walking into any kind of establishment.

Movements dictated by habits more than consciousness, Nicolò ties his horse’s bridle to a tree and start on taking down their bags from the saddle. He can feel Yusuf on his side doing the same, and it’s a silent task that soothes his mind. They work quickly, freeing their horse from their equipment, setting down a camp, gathering dry wood and laying their covers down. It’s a routine they know. Nicolò stops when he sees Yusuf sitting near his bags, not moving. He’s holding the wood in his hands, but he doesn’t seem to know what to do with it.

“Yusuf.” He calls his attention and he gets it immediately. As soon as he turns his head toward him his eyes inspect him from head to toe.

“Are you alright?” He asks, and Nicolò has no doubt that he’d be on his feet in an instant he said no.

“I am my love. I’m okay. I need to know you are too.” Yusuf chuckles, a small, sad sound. He rubs his hands over his face, presses his palms into his eyes for a moment. Takes a deep breath in and slowly let it go. His shoulders go limp with exhaustion, and Nicolò knows they do not age but he looks older in this moment.

“I am.” He pauses, eyes lost on the distance and Nicolò sees the worry in his head. “It’s just- It doesn’t get easier.” And he knows what he’s referring to. There’s only one thing he could possibly refer to.

They are warriors. They fight, they protect, they kill. It is a burden they chose to take upon, but it doesn’t make bearing it easier, no matter how much time passes. Blood is still blood, even after centuries. Sometimes, it stains more than the skin.

”Come.” Nicolò says. “You have blood in your hair. Let me help.” And Yusuf let himself be walked to the small stream near their camp, he let himself be seated near it, let Nicolò kneel beside him with a bowl and pour water down his hair, cleaning the blood and flesh stuck in his beautiful curls.

“Is this really our purpose?” Yusuf asks, head leaning above his knees to keep his tunic dry from the water. “To takes lives and sow death everywhere we go.”

“We must believe in the righteousness of our actions.” Nicolò says, filling the bowl with water once more.

“Like when we met?” Yusuf doesn’t mean it as a wounding blow. Nicolò knows that. Yusuf has granted him a forgiveness he doesn’t deserve, doesn’t believe he’ll ever truly deserve either but has accepted, if only for Yusuf; Yusuf who has never made him feel the weight of his past sins. But he knows that they are only human. They do not hold all the answers, they can be fools and ignorant. His actions on the crusades are a bitter reminder of that simple fact.

“I was alone. I did not have you by my side, nor Andromache and Quỳnh. I believe in them. I believe that affection for another sets us on the right path. I know you would never let me stray away, just like I would hold you back from the dark.”

“Would this be enough to keep ourselves good Nicolò?” Yusuf looks up from under his lashes, and his eyes are haunted. He is doubting, he is feeling the weight of their action and question their end, of what they are, because how could he not? He is hurting, and Nicolò wishes he could take all his pain away and let him be happy. “Aren’t we the same? I would follow you to the death, my moon. Who’s to say we would keep each other good?” It is hard, to be sure of your heart in times like this.

“I think,” and he pauses, lay the bowl by his side, keeps his hands on Yusuf, grounding. “That we should believe in Allah. In His ways.” That seems to calm Yusuf. He sits back on his ankle, lays a hand over Nicolò’s on his shoulder. His fingers are cool, sticky with dirt but tangible, real against his skin. “I believe in your heart, and the kindness it holds and the morals you keep. I believe you are too good of a man to be corrupted like I was, to be brought to a dark path. I believe in you, my love. And I should hope that is enough for me to be good too.”

*

That night, Nicolò sits by Yusuf’s side, watching as his love draws senseless figures with his fingertips on his forearm he’s keeping safely tucked over his laps. They washed, and ate and drank their fill. Their troubled minds are weary now, seeking comfort. Nicolò needs the touch just as much as Yusuf does.

Yes, he loves him, a vast feeling barely contained within his heart.

“I wish we had music.” Yusuf says. He always likes a good song, but sometimes it’s the only thing that can keep his mind from his worries. Nicolò wishes he had something, even the simplest drum to play something for him. He would learn the flute in a moment if that’s what Yusuf were to ask from him.

But he doesn’t have any of that. All he has is his voice, and so he sings for Yusuf. He was never the most talented with songs and choirs, and the words are blurry in his mind but he gently sings the few lullabies he remembers from home, filling the forgotten words with humming. They fall asleep against each other, Yusuf’s head on his shoulder and his nose buried in his curls. His hand still held by Yusuf when the sun wakes them.

~*~*~

They finally have time for peace. For the past years, the Great Death laid devastation through Europe, taking everyone on its path. They first arrived in these lands for the war between the kingdoms of England and France but upon seeing the ravage of the _pestis_ they laid their weapons down and tried to help as best as they could. They all died from it, many times, and each new death was worse than the previous one. They stayed at bedsides and gave medications and offered shoulders to cry on. There wasn’t much to be done except watch and be there for the sick who couldn’t see their family. Nicolò gave many last rites during those long months, trying to soothe theses souls as best as he could while Yusuf told tales of the worlds to keep their heart as light as possible, sharing laughter and beauty.

But it’s over now, and people are trying to heal from the damages caused by the plague, slowly. They haven’t left the northern side of Europe since 1348 and that terrible earthquake in Fuili that seemed to finally ring the end of the world until Andromache explained its source. All four of them traveled there to see the fallout of catastrophe, but after helping with the ruins they went back to the Holy Roman Empire and the pestilence, where their help was more needed.

Quỳnh and Andromache left them to visit the Asian Steppes but he and Yusuf were yearning for their coasts, having gone too long without seeing the ocean or heard their languages. And so they went south, left their armors in one of their caves but kept their swords and daggers because one can never be too careful. They started a journey by horse to the Iberian Peninsula, where they would cross to the Maghreb and then ride to Yusuf’s home. They needed the quiet of travel by foot, only the two of them rather than the busy ships and their crew and loud orders. They had enough noise for a lifetime.

After six days of travel without crossing with any other soul, Yusuf spot a city in the distance and they decided to make a stop there, in need of provision but mostly because they both miss the agitation of a busy market and the crowd of an inn.

It is the city of Toledo they learn as they wait with a merchant at the main doors. It is a big city, in the center of the kingdom and many people pass through, merchants, scholars, artists, everything needed to make the stay interesting in Yusuf’s eyes, who smiles at Nicolò as they mount down their horses and passes the guards by foot after paying their way in.

The first few days in the city are spent in a haze of scents, taste and sounds. They have been on small roads and remote lands for months; it feels good to be in a hub of cultures and knowledge again. They stroll through markets, try any new food they stumble upon, stop at various inns to strike conversations with patrons and get back to their room long after the sun has set, sweaty and smiling. They needed that time alone, Nicolò realizes when for the first time in weeks Yusuf gives his brightest smile. Oh, how he missed it.

On the night of the fourth day in the city, they sit at a table at their inn and nurse a drink of ale each as they discuss the next stop in their journey. They are going over the details of what they want to do on the road to Algeciras to cross the sea when noises in the street make them raise their heads. And in comes two men in brightly colored clothes, both holding an instrument by their side.

They’re selling their art as they make their way through the room and make a deal with the owner. That night they all eat in the company of the two bards, singing news from around the continent weaved along with tales of heroes and mystical beasts. As time passes he and Yusuf can pick out real stories altered by time and imagination from pure creation. Sometimes it gives them a laugh, sometimes it awakens a painful longing for times long gone. Tonight, they are laughing at the fabulation of the musicians.

They listen as they finish their meal, but soon enough they grow bored of listening. Well, Yusuf does. At one rather melancholic piece, he finishes his drink in one sip and stands up to recite love to the beat of the music. In a smooth, honey-sweet voice he delivers his own poetry, translated into castellan but they are old, he learned the flow of languages a long time ago. It does not lose its beauty in the translation. Well, it loses some but only because Yusuf first spoke these words to Nicolò under the stars, whispered against his shoulder in Tounsi and Ligurian and some Greek they’d been thinking in since meeting Andromache and Quỳnh. There were Viet words and love weaved with Arabic science and some of the Steppes memories they carry with them. It is a task to offer a multitude, centuries into one line. But love for the moon is easily understandable by all, more so when it’s Yusuf who is singing her praises. After all, he believes in every word he speaks.

Nicolò sits quietly in his corner, smiling as Yusuf draws every eye on him. The instruments keep playing but disbelief can be seen on their owner’s faces. The melody stops before Yusuf’s poetry and he finishes his last line on his own, standing tall in the midst of the crowd. It rings in the silence of the room until a man near Nicolò start clapping, and soon enough praises fall from every lips.

“Are you looking for a payment?” One of the bards asks suspiciously, and Nicolò sees the words on the lips more than he hears them.

“I believe,” Yusuf says and walks to the middle of the room. “That it is said that _where money is the judge, the judgment comes with a wink of an eye…_ ” He smoothly quotes from a book they read a month ago, one he picked up on the road and loved only for its title. _Libro de Buen Amor_. He saw it and told Nicolò with a smile ‘it is a book made for me’. Nicolò had to agree only because he wasn’t the first to point out the title to Yusuf. Reading proved to be an adventure on its own, and even though they both had their comments about the text, the prose was still greatly enjoyable during their journey on horses.

“I prefer praises to the coins.” Yusuf adds. “They feel more honest.” And with that, the musicians seem to be put at ease. It is hard to make a living after all, Nicolò cannot blame them for protecting their survival.

“An artist?”

“A poet.” Yusuf smiles and offers a flourish with his hands. “Al-Tayyib, walker of many lands and speaker of many tongues.” And Yusuf speaks these words wearing his scimitar by his hip. He speaks holding himself like a warrior, holding himself like a scholar and an artist and everything else he is that cannot be put into words. He speaks with warmth in his voice and the bards smile at him.

“Come, Al-Tayyib, speaker of many tongues. Come sing with us.”

And he does, the two bards play on their instruments and they barely talk before Yusuf start singing with them. They have a well-known repertoire that Yusuf is familiar with, and as always he can use his voice in the most perfect way for what he wishes to do. But it’s not enough, and after a couple of songs, Yusuf decides to speak alone.

He shares words from Andalusian poets, Arabic artists and the many thoughts they came across their travels in Asian lands and the European coasts, sciences and faith told through tales. Some of them get applause, other laughter, while a few leave the crowd silent with pain or disbelief. Each one captures everyone’s attention, and Yusuf seems delighted by all the reactions they provoke.

“You must meet my friend.” Yusuf says as they take a break to drink some ale and rest their foot. Lanterns and candles are being lit inside the inn, and Nicolò did not realize the sun had gone down already. Time flies when you are occupied. “He plays too.” Nicolò hears as they pass by the table to get drinks at the counter.

He watches, vigilant as always, as the two men and Yusuf pay for their drink. They come back, sit at the table and Yusuf pushes one mug to Nicolò who gladly takes it, parching his thirst with good beer. He’s been singing along, catching Yusuf’s eyes every now and then and sharing a secret smile between them only.

“So, this is your friend then?” The smallest of the two men ask. He’s wearing colorful clothes like any good bard does, while his friend proudly wears a feather in his hat.

“Nicolò.” He says, and he knows their eyes are looking at this sword resting against his thigh. It is hard to forget what they are, especially when traveling.

“Just Nicolò?”

“Just Nicolò. Sailor and healer. A road companion to Yusuf.” It’s the kindest way to put everything else he is. So many words and most of them always come back to Yusuf. It’s hard to think of himself without thinking of him. “Oud player.” He adds when the need to hold the instrument feels too strong in his hands. His intentions are read clearly by the taller man, who nods.

“Would you like to try?” And neither of them can answer quickly enough, tripping over their tongue to accept the offer. It has been so long since he last played, he missed the feeling dearly.

The two instruments are similar but different enough to each have their name. The Moorish guitern as Miguel calls it has the oud’s round body and bend headstock, although it is closer to a sickle than what Nicolò is used to seeing on an instrument. It is more oval than the drop shape but the number of strings is the same as for the oud. But the guitarra Latina, that small thing of an instrument, that is the real novelty to Nicolò. Smaller even than the morisca, it has a flat back and an hourglass shape that feels foreign in his hands. It also has one string less than the guitern, and is played by small bone pick Tulio explains.

“You’re two, we have two instruments. Your choice.” Miguel is holding both instruments by their neck, offering them. Nicolò is quick to point at his preference, and without a fail it makes Yusuf laughs.

“ _You have to go with the time my love._ ” He says quietly in Tounsi, foregoing any Frankish languages around these lands, brushing his knee with his own.

“ _Inshallah Yusuf, inshallah._ ” Nicolò says in a breath and takes the almost-oud. Yusuf laughs louder and takes the flat-back guitarra.

They sit in the back of the room, out of the way so the two artists can teach them how they play the instruments. It’s laborious at first but soon enough they get the gist of it. Not much has changed they find and they have good memories. The new tones and tuning aren’t hard to understand once Nicolò manage to make the link with what he already knows and Yusuf is happy to learn about the clusters of notes he can stroke rather than crafted melodies he still struggles to produce on instruments.

Soon enough the kind tutoring of the bards proves to be enough and they sit back as Nicolò and Yusuf face each other. He carefully watches Yusuf’s hands to base his own playing on the rhythms he’s stroking. It all comes back, the melody, the sound of what music should be. He knows it’s not what people in Europe or Al-Andalus are used to, but it feels right to him.

Soon enough his eyes close, sure enough of what Yusuf is playing to let himself be transported by the music. It grows louder and louder and stronger until he realizes they’re playing a known tune. A decade ago they traveled with merchants in the Maghreb for almost two years; they shared bread and bed and their life for so long, and Nicolò played with them almost every night. This is one of the songs they liked the most, a traditional piece, perfect to dance and sing along. And still today it carries the spirits of their companion from what is a long time ago but feels like a blink in their life.

He spares a thought for these families and tells himself he’ll keep them in his prayers tonight because they still bring him peace, here as he listens to Yusuf hums the melody. They both forgot the words, but he can see in Yusuf’s eyes he did not forget the strength in the music nor the significance of it. It ends with a reprise of the voiced melody on the guitarra, and he gently let it die along with the moment shared between him and Yusuf.

Nicolò raises his head from the instrument to find most of the patrons gathered around them, watching and listening. His hand falls away from the strings quite involuntarily and the crowd explodes in applause and congratulations. Nicolò accepts those with a flustered blush while Yusuf is much more graceful about it than him.

They keep playing for a while when their little public ask for more, Yusuf carefully stroking the strings of his own guitarra and laying the ground while Nicolò harmonizes with it and craft melodies from them. It is fun, to play with his heart like that, it’s been a while since any of them did anything musical and the joy of sharing something has been greatly missed. But even that must come to an end, sooner or later.

“I cannot.” Yusuf says with a heavy sigh. He lays the guitarra flat over his laps, chuckle with frustration. Even after all those years he still can’t make music without getting overwhelmed by it; he doesn’t do things halfway, it’s his whole heart or nothing and it, unfortunately, means that playing an instrument is still laborious for him when all he wants to get lost in the art. He looks more tired than he was a few hours ago, and that may be the ale, but he knows him better. Nicolò smiles and pats his hand resting over his own lap. He already knows what he wants to try with the new instruments before they have to give them back.

“Do you have a quill?” And that’s all he needs to say. A moment later, Yusuf has given the guitarra back to Tulio and instead hands one of his eagle quills to Nicolò. Maybe it is not the modern way, but it is theirs, the one ingrained deep in their bones, their souls. The one that speaks to their heart.

It’s easy to tune the instrument in his hand back to what he first learned, to make it sound close enough to an oud. It’s easy to grip the feather and stroke the strings, it’s easy to let his fingers remember the maqâmât and the rhythm and the voice of music. It’s easy to close his eyes and let the emotions guide him.

It’s even easier to pick the right maqam for Yusuf’s tale of courage and heroism he wrote into an epic, it’s easy to punctuate each rhyme and each act in the words by the music. It’s a dance they did many times before, and somehow Nicolò always knew how to put Yusuf’s words in music. Even if he did not allow himself to think of this doubt, he’s glad he did not forget how to do that in the past century.

Yusuf is looking at him, smiling even though he sings his words and it’s beautiful. They weave together many stories, of loss and love and life and each poem brings memories they share, that only they are privy to, and despite that Nicolò can sense the crowd investment in what is being sung. Yusuf has that talent with words, he can do what he wants with them, play with the sounds and meaning to craft precious artwork that etches themselves into your mind, and never leave you. Nicolò would call it magic if he didn’t know it came from the pure love within Yusuf’s heart.

“One last.” Nicolò says well after thirst found a home in their throat and his fingers pulse with heat where he’s been pressing the strings. Yusuf nods once and it comes as an evidence when he chooses their tale of love, one that started in blood and tragedy and ended in trust and devotion. He hums the first note that Nicolò copies on the instrument’s neck and he starts on the story, of the violence that preceded careful trials and errors before finally achieving their precious harmony. Nicolò cannot look away from Yusuf, too concentrated on the way his eyes are shaded when talking about their meeting before his smile crinkles them again when he sings about their first night together and the many that followed.

Oh yes, he loves Yusuf. He loved him then, in their fragile peace in midst of wars, barely ally, haunted by violence and fear and yet sure of their fated connection. Loves him now when his entire world revolves around this man, this kind, gentle, loving soul who links their hands as he sleeps and would rather go hungry and give his bread than leave someone else in need. He’ll love him still when their time will be over, when their bones will have grown old and turned back to dusk to their Creator. And then he’ll love him in the hereafter, where they’ll share it together, like they’re sharing their time on earth.

The guitarra feels warm in his hands, a memory, a piece of their life that they’ll carry for many long years. He holds onto it for the time he’s allowed to. Once they settle in Mahdia, he’ll buy one for themselves, so that they can have music in the life they’re heading to so that they can bring it with them when it’ll be time to march into the next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we’re back on the guitar timeline! If you can guess the next instrument (without google) I’ll be really impressed. You won’t win anything but you can gloat about it if you want. Also, I wanted to be smart with the oc names but in the middle of writing this I remembered my favorite almost-gay animation couple and I couldn’t help it.
> 
> Shamelessly plugging my tumblr [@salzundhonig](https://salzundhonig.tumblr.com/). I’m there if you wanna say hi or ask me anything.
> 
> Kudos and comments feed the writer and keep them healthy.  
> 


	5. The Renaissance Lute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is called a lute now. With Yusuf by his side, no matter the name, or the purpose, he’ll keep playing until dawn and more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have the various clips of Luca Marinelli singing that are going around tumblr to thank for this chapter.

**Holy Roman Empire, Praha, 1590**

It is very late when they finally get out of the castle, and despite the cold winds of winter they both feel too warm from the wine they drank. It isn’t serious of them to have been drinking as they were working, it could have ended very badly if luck decided to leave their side but at the time it seemed like a great idea. And to Nicolò, it is still a great idea because they do not feel cold or tired as they make their way through the courtyard to the wing of the castle where they have their room.

Instead, Nicolò can hold Yusuf’s hand and lean into his side as he speaks his beautiful thoughts. He doesn’t hear any of them but it doesn’t matter, the sound alone brings him enough joy.

They’re wearing European fashion, already so different from what they remember from the last time they stayed inland. As per usual Yusuf has chosen the brightly colored clothes that he likes so much. Deep red jerkins and ornated doublets over soft chemises with fine embroidering. He’s greatly enjoying this decade's use of jewelry and silver accents. Nicolò, less at ease as Yusuf is, has chosen dulled colors like he always does. Dressed in browns and off whites he carries pouches and hidden blades underneath his own coats. Yusuf has one in his boots and the other in his trousers, never going out weaponless. No matter the wine in their blood that is one thing they never forget.

It’s not the smartest choice of clothing for Nicolò, as a bard he should be more colorful but it never sits right with him to enjoy unnecessary indulgences. And he reasons that the fact he’s the one carrying the instrument is enough to let people know his occupation.

And though they both love music, that choice of the profession does not come from personal enjoyment. There is a goal behind it.

As they came to Europe, Yusuf introduced himself as a traveler from the Ottoman Empire, bringing with him a thousand and one stories from afar. The many and fast evolution of Europe in science and art has slowed down a while ago already, but the fascination for eastern lands hasn’t diminished yet and Yusuf is using that to his advantage. Nicolò, not so sure of his capacity to improvise stories, preferred to learn a repertoire on an instrument and sell his talents based on requests. They do have a number where they perform together, and the public often greatly enjoy it. Yusuf always manages to bring more from him, and it’s not hard for Nicolò to know how to best help Yusuf’s word with his music. He knows him, and he knows all the stories he has.

It took three years to build themselves a strong enough reputation to be invited in courts and castles. They didn’t choose the bard life for praises no; they did because neither of them are ignorant to how power works and what happens in places of power. And it is incredible what people can say with some wine and music around them. More than once Nicolò used his music to make himself look innocuous and approachable. Yusuf, with his golden tongue and kind eyes, gets confessions out of lonely wives and frustrated husbands all the time, passing him gossips that often includes one or two interesting names. Those skills polished through the years get them precious information.

Yusuf had worked as a spy in his first life, using his family trading business to get into the richest court and fraternize. What harm can a humble son of a merchant do? Yusuf is good with people; they trust him quickly if he so wishes and under his careful tutoring Nicolò learned how to do so as well. How to appear as the most banal, boring, and harmless fellow as can be. How to seem ignorant enough that people think you wouldn’t understand the weight of a name or a secret.

They worked their way up to the emperor’s banquet room slowly, starting small in inns before having their names recommended to the most prestigious table. Soon enough the emperor asked to hear Josef al-Tayyib’s story from the orient and Nikolaus von Genua gladly offered his music.

Nicolò was asked to sit by the emperor’s side as they brought the sweet plates that finished the banquet. He heard everything he needed to from him as Yusuf entertained the empress and let her whisper all sort of sweet and forbidden secrets to him. Often the smallest words can be the most dangerous. Knowing the kitchen is getting low on food is a clear sign they’re sending it elsewhere, where it’s needed. But for now, it only means less meat on banquet’s tables the _Fürstin_ cries out.

There is instability in the Holy Roman Empire between the many Christians -new and old school of thought within the religion- and the emperor Rudolf II has started to resent the Ottoman empire. There’s talk of war and campaigns against them, and he refuses to back down from conflicts. He and Yusuf agreed it would be best if they stayed in the region in case anything goes wrong, and Andromache and Quỳnh could be useful here too. They know the people will once again suffer from ravaged fields and the time of hunger that always comes along with wars.

But that is a worry for tomorrow, they cannot do anything about it tonight as the moon shines coldly and the snow falls hard from the sky. They can celebrate their success in the peace of their room, they have all the night for themselves and many bottles of wines to ask for, no point in ruining such a good mood.

Nicolò is brought back out of the contemplation of Yusuf’s face by a sharp finger in his side.

“Hayati, are you even listening to me?”

“I am!” The wine makes his indignant tone crawls to the high. “You were talking about how the duchess dress was shining from the gold in the seams.”

“Habibi.” Yusuf’s voice is soft. “That was a while ago, when we were still in the kitchens.”

“Oh.” Nicolò straightens his spine and looks at Yusuf's eyes into eyes rather than with his cheek resting against his shoulders. “I apologize my love. But your profile was too captivating for me to do anything but think about how beautiful you are tonight.” He usually likes to push the blame of his brazen words on wine, but he and Yusuf both know it is a thinly veiled excuse. He doesn’t need the wine to do that.

“Are you saying you find me attractive?” Yusuf’s giggles do in fact come from the wine, but the playfulness in his voice can be found at any hours of the day, to Nicolò’s great delight.

“Pardon my audacity _mein Herr_ , but I must confess my true feelings.” Nicolò bows his head slightly and softens his tone. “You are the most beautiful face I saw tonight.”

“What about Katharina?”

“ _Haus Habsburg?_ ”

“That Katharina yes, the one upon which all the eyes were turned to.” He explains, feigning hurt and jealousy with a badly concealed smirk under his beard.

“But not mine.” Nicolò says because they weren’t, how could they be with Yusuf here with him? “Not even Katharina _aus dem Haus Habsburg_ could compare to such delicate features and soft hair, _mein Herr_.” Nicolò continues, playing into his game. Yusuf is smiling, a soft blush coloring his cheeks --from the wine, snow or love Nicolò doesn’t know but he looks amazing nonetheless.

“ _Oh, serenade me, fair bard._ ” Yusuf says in German, accentuating his accent as much as possible and batting his eyelashes, playing the bashful and ignorant noble he is not. “ _I wish to hear your honeyed voice and fall in love with your sweet words._ ” Nicolò laughs and happily indulges him.

“ _Anything for you, you stunning prince. How come they let such a beautiful man to wander all alone, without anyone at his arm?_ ” He’s using Italian because he never quite got used to the German dialects, the syllables too harsh in his Mediterranean mouth; he did not take to the accent easy as he did for Arabic or Quỳnh’s language. Yusuf grins through his blush.

“ _Ask away, bard, and see if you like the answer._ ”

“ _Weshalb?_ ”

“Because my heart is already taken by someone.” He switched back to Arabic because he always does when he talks about his love, he cannot help it. “A musician, kind-hearted, who makes the darkest nights shine with his smile, and who can take away all my pain with a single kiss.”

“Is that so?” Nicolò asks as he takes the instrument hanging by his shoulder. It is called a lute, and despite its very similar form it has close to nothing with what he knows. It’s been so long since they last were in these parts of Europe, he’s still getting used to all the changes made to the instrument. Playing for decades on an oud, it was strange to find frets on its little sister.

They took gut strings and wounded them around the neck to fix the notes he soon learned. He never had such a constricted way to play, now the notes don’t flow together easily like they always did, they have barriers that separate them and cut the sounds. No more beautiful and lounging wails of the instrument as he could let his fingers slide all along the neck. Though the guts cinching the fingerboard and fixing the tone do make playing while walking and dancing easier, so he can understand the appeal to traveling bards. It also allows for complex clusters of notes that would not sound as good as they do without the help of the frets.

He was greatly interested in the way he saw people play the lute, no _risha_ or tools of the sort, simply their fingers. He soon learned of the nails used instead of a plucking aid. Nicolò always kept his nails short. Out of practicality, out of habit. For cleanliness, to not risk hurting Yusuf in their intimate moments. Because snatching a nail on a piece of fabric or a cord is not a feeling he particularly enjoys, even if it heals in seconds. Because they have always worked with their hands and long nails are plain and simply impractical for their occupations. Even Yusuf in his years spent as a scholar would keep his short to take care of the precious papers and books he was working with.

But he has long nails on his right hand now, because they are the tools used to play the lute. Even the slightest length catches on the string and it helps produce a cleaner sound than the bare flesh of a fingertip could. He learned how to best shape the nails with his knife, he also learned the frustration of breaking one in a fight and having to wait for it to grow again before his playing could sound even again. A few months ago, he sprained his left wrist, the one where the nails are kept short and the one he uses to complete tasks now. He sprained it after a very long and active night with Yusuf, and it is as hilarious as it is embarrassing. His love laughed very loudly as his wrist healed before forgiving himself with a sweet kiss. The nails do have some other advantages, like the noises he can draw out of Yusuf when he uses them to scratch at his scalp when he plays with his hair. That one he’ll miss when he has to cut his nails again.

“My love is a very talented musician,” Yusuf says as Nicolò shoulders the lute and tests the strings. His hands are cold, stiff even but he doesn’t care about that, not when Yusuf is smiling so sweetly just for him. “You will need to be very impressive to compete with him.”

“I shall do my best to impress you, _mein Herr_.” Nicolò took to plucking the strings easily, like second nature almost. So it is with the same ease that he starts strumming a soft pattern on his lute. One learned so little time ago for them, but it’s a particularly sweet tune. A serenade that Yusuf loves, one he knows brings him tears to his eyes and a smile any time he hears, so that’s what he plays.

Nicolò realized a long time ago that he doesn’t need words to say things. He wrote this melody one warm summer evening as Yusuf laid bare on their sheets, stretched like a cat and basking in the sun golden ray. He says it brings him back to happy times each time he hears it.

He starts softly, hears the slightly out of tune chanterelle but it doesn’t matter. He let his fingers pluck the strings one by one, swiftly moving his fingers on the neck to let the melody out. It is a joyful tune, gentle but no less hopeful. Yusuf stops in his tracks and looks at him like he always does, eyes big and overpouring with love and adoration. He is smiling by the time Nicolò starts to overlap the melody and plays chords deftly, as he learned these two years ago, so long and yet nothing for them.

He pours everything he feels into it, the way Yusuf makes his heart feels bigger in his chest, how painful it is to be away from him, the euphoria of gazing upon his face first thing every morning, the warmth of his breath in his neck and the weight of his hands in his, the frisson he gets every time their lips touch, every time flesh brushes flesh.

The notes are familiar, not quite _maqâmât_ but the trills and lengthened slides over the chords are the same, even though they are thrusted into a different time. It’s still the same, and Nicolò gaze at Yusuf as tears pearl in the corner of his bright brown eyes. 

“Nicolò.” He whispers when the ayre comes to its end, but Nicolò isn’t quite ready to speak yet. He looks down at his hands as he starts on another song, this one not from him but still one of Yusuf’s favorite from his repertoire.

He has gotten good at singing. Despite his voice being deeper than most around him, he learned to do with it. He’s not the most talented, he doesn’t have a gift as others have, but he has time. He polished his skills over the years, and time makes up for what he lacks in talent. And he enjoys singing. He enjoys seeing others happy with his songs, he enjoys sharing joy. He enjoys it when he can sing to Yusuf and him only.

It’s often during their performances that Nicolò thinks of Yusuf only, and he has to remind himself to not look at him but at the crowd of spectators. It’s easier some days when they have a clear mission, like today, but other times when it’s just for pleasure, well. When Nicolò lets his mind roam free it always goes to Yusuf, he cannot help it.

But here, when they’re all alone, no one beside them and nothing to worry about, that’s when Nicolò feels no shame in thinking about Yusuf. He can stare at this man, _his_ man, so beautiful, so kind and intelligent and loyal and every virtue that exists in this world. He can stare at him all he wants and pours what he feels through his hands, giving Yusuf some pieces of joy from a shared past. Yusuf who deserves the world and yet wouldn’t want it if it meant keeping it for himself, not sharing its beauty with everyone.

“ _Let those who seek, find joy today, tomorrow brings no certain truth._ ” Nicolò softly sings in the familiar Italian language, words rolling off his tongue as easily as his fingers press against the strings of the lute.

“I remember it.” Yusuf has a look in his eyes, that one distant gaze he gets when he remembers something. “We were in Florence when it was played for the first time. _Il trionfo di Bacco e Arianna_ , si?”

“ _E' stato a Firenze._ ” Nicolò confirms, gently let his fingers fall away from the lute.

“You’ve done it, bard.” He says, voice thick with joy and warmth. “You’ve serenaded me. My heart is yours, for now and for ever.”

“You’re such a poet hayati. An incurable one at that.” Nicolò says under his smile.

“I would like to point out and put on record that I am not the one who just spend hours singing ballads and ayres about a man I’ve been traveling with for centuries.” There’s mirth dancing in his eyes and Nicolò loves him so, so much.

“Come here, my love.” He let the lute fall by his hip, and with his free hand cups Yusuf’s neck and bring him for a kiss. It’s gentle, slow, still tastes of wine and honey. It’s the best thing about this entire evening. “You’re the one who for an entire hour recited poems and sonnets about a man you’ve been traveling with for centuries.”

“Lies. There was one about unkillable goddesses who can run faster than the winds.” Yusuf grins, eyes twinkling.

“It is still love cuore mio.” His love has nothing to add, he simply kisses him again, harder than the first one, with more intention behind it. Intention clearly received by Nicolò who push back with a panting breath, hand grabbing at his hip and keeping him close.

“I love you, my Nicolò.” He presses his head against his, skin cold and wet from the snow but it feels like home.

“I love you, my Yusuf.” His hand finds its place against his neck, thumb resting near his ear just at the edge of his beard, gently rubbing the soft skin there. He’ll never tire of it, the feeling of Yusuf against him.

Nicolò indulges in the sensation of Yusuf’s breath over his cheek until a sudden gush of wind surprise them and take their hats off their heads. They run after them, shivering and laughing like barely of age children would do. Once the rogue hats have been retrieved, they turn away from the courtyard to the entrance of the castle, finally leaving the harsh winter cold.

“We should go find Andromache and Quỳnh.” Nicolò says as he takes Yusuf’s arm and huddles closer to him. “They might be interested to know what’s boiling here in Europe.” 

“ _The new moon of the month following the solstice._ ” Yusuf repeats Andromache’s exact instructions. “We can take time in London before meeting with them.”

“It’s been a long time since we saw them.” There’s sadness and longing in his voice and he doesn’t try to hide it. “I miss Quỳnh’s jokes. Can you imagine how hilarious she would have been in German?” Yusuf is laughing by his side before he even finished his sentence.

“It’s like asking if the sun shines. Of course, she would have been funny. We ought to come back soon so she can learn it. Some jokes just don’t work in any other language.” And do they know that. How many times did they try to have some humorous thoughts before realizing that the ending wouldn’t work without this particular wordplay, or this knowledge of this famous place or name.

“I can already hear Andromache sighing,” Nicolò says as they make through the heavy wooden door, holding it open for Yusuf. Now that they’re inside they’re feeling the cold settling in their bones. Yusuf’s hands are shaking.

“She’s grown tired of joy. She’s too much of a cynic, she needs to learn how to have fun again.” There’s a complaint here that’s not one but really worry about their sister. They wished they knew how to help her.

“I know she could use some happiness after their work in England.” They’re all familiar with persecutions, but it doesn’t make witnessing any of them more easier as time goes on. Especially for Andromache and Quỳnh who have seen so many women been unfairly judged throughout their lives.

“Come on, my moon,” Yusuf takes his hand and drag him through the corridor to the room they share. “It’s a beautiful night. Let’s enjoy it before we have to get on another boat.”

Nicolò couldn’t agree more. They find a bottle of wine and a plate of bread and cheese waiting for them, as well as a respectable fire already burning in the hearth. But they forgo all of them to go warm up in the bed, cold and sodden clothes forgotten by the door and the pelts tucked tight around them, keeping the cold air out and the warm one with them. Nicolò doesn’t sprain his wrist this time Yusuf will point out later when the wine bottle will be opened and the food eaten in the comfort of the sheets and thick pelts. Nicolò will smile and kiss him, content and comfortable as Yusuf takes one of his hand to his head and settles over his laps like they’ve been doing for the past few months.

It is a good life; he thinks before Yusuf’s lips steal all of his thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Indeed, bards were very often spies for the exact reasons I wrote here. It’s easy to hear things when people are eating and having fun or when you’re playing songs at their bedsides. Cool stuff.
> 
> Today’s inspiration bought to you by [this youtube compilation](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XvYNlcLtR0w) of what lute music would have sounded like end of the 16th.
> 
> And I know the German here is incredibly anachronistic but I couldn’t help but sneak it in. Sorry not sorry <3.


	6. Lachrimae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " _Flow, my tears, fall from your springs. Exiled, forever, let me mourn._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Death of character, grieving, self-harm (mention of wounds inflicted on someone by themselves in one paragraph)

**Kingdom of Denmark, coast of the North Sea, 1648**

It’s cold, freezingly so and not even the fire is helping.

They found an old watch house on the coast, left to ruin but there’s still a roof. And it’s not like they have any other options, not with the storm growing bigger by the minutes. They found some wet wood that barely took the fire, and they sit away from the broken windows, tugging their cloak close to their neck. It’s better than nothing.

They only have news from Europe, nothing else reached their ears but they’re not good. There’s a plague in Seville, and in Venice, and more wars than they could fight in even split up throughout the continent. An none of it would even matter because they lost a part of their soul.

There’s a space left void near Andromache, and none of them dare step in. They already said what they needed to say hours ago. She left with fury in her eyes, and they let her go.

~*~*~

For the past fifty years they have been relentless in their search. Since the day they found Andromache locked in that jail, wailing and thrashing against her iron bounds they have been looking for the one so unjustly ripped away from them.

They found every member of the ship crew that partook in Quỳnh’s sentence. And their friends, and their children. They navigated on every sea, searched everywhere; oceans, lakes and rivers. Nothing. Their last attempt in date is barely a few days ago, cruising along the German Sea and the coast of the Danish Kingdom. But it is well into winter and the sea hasn’t been kind to them in a long time. A storm surrounded them and their ship capsized. Nicolò was struck by panic as he watched Yusuf’s face contorted in terror as he was swallowed by the waves.

He was stuck under a dinghy for two long days Yusuf told him. He lost count of how many times he died before he could find a bubble of air and stay awake more than a handful of seconds to get his bearings and swim to the surface. That’s when Nicolò told her to stop their search. She didn’t take the words gently. Yusuf sided with Nicolò, unable to bear the idea of the grief he would cause his love if he was to die. Yusuf said he couldn’t watch what happened to Quỳnh happen to her, or Nicolò, or him.

She stormed off in a cry of rage, alone in the desolated lands. There is no village nearby, and usually they wouldn’t worry about her but these are not usual circumstances. How could they be? He and Yusuf wandered along the coast long enough to their toes growing numb before finding the watch house and taking refuge inside its broken walls. They huddled close in front of the fire, back resting against their bags to keep warmth, holding onto each other for their dear life. No one dared to speak a word, waiting for Andromache’s return. If she did not wish to be found, she wouldn’t be.

*

“Andromache,” Yusuf says, but his words die in his mouth before he can continue.

She’s sitting on the other side of the fire, hugging her knees close to her chest. Nicolò isn’t sure when she came back but they opened their eyes to see her staring at the fire, still as a rock. Lines craved into her face; she looks like a different person than their sister they’ve known for five centuries now.

“Don’t.” She says on a breath and she sounds so small, like there’s nothing left in her heart. Nicolò isn’t sure if her voice is rough out of screams or lack of use. They never saw her in such a state. “Please, don’t Yusuf.” The silence stretches, only the fire cracks between them. “I don’t want you to suffer as I do.” She admits, quiet. Ashamed. Angry. Broken underneath it all.

“Andromache.”

“Nico.” She doesn’t even look at him. “It is my fault. It’s all my fault what happened to her.” There are words whispered in a language she never taught them, the one she shared with Quỳnh. The sound brings her to tears and she bites into her wrist to keep her whimpers of pain quiet. They do not move, instead they watch her like a worried child would with a wounded animal, unsure if it’ll attack or retreat. It’s a while before she can form any other thoughts to them. She’s squeezing her wrist with her left hand and they both know she’s bruising and hurting before immediately healing only to do it all over again. They know the blood under her nails comes from too quickly gone wounds inflicted by her own hands over her body.

“We were too audacious; I didn’t see the danger.” She says, confesses into the night. Nicolò never heard her speak of the sort, not once since they began their search all those years ago. It seems she’s reaching the last thread of her iron resolution. “I lead her to her demise. It won’t happen again.” The silence stretches before she speaks again. “I won’t lose either of you.”

“Andromache?”

“We stop now.” The words sound like all the trumpets of heaven sounding the end of the world, a dreary doom. Even the fire quiets between them and the waves are silent outside. Nicolò can see Yusuf’s face crumbling but all he can do is clenches his teeth. “I have a responsibility to you to keep us all safe. I can’t lose you Yusuf.” She looks at him for the first time since she came back to them. Nicolò almost wishes she didn’t, the grief swimming in her eyes is unbearable to witness. “Nor you Nicolò.”

Nicolò looks at Yusuf, and he can see the relief that’s at war with his own shame and sorrow, knows he bears the same one, just like it dances with guilt over Andromache’s features.

They do not wish to leave Quỳnh behind, cannot abandon her to a fate not even conceivable by any mortal minds. But they can’t. They can’t get to her, no matter how hard they try. They cannot find her. It’ll cost them their lives too if they keep trying. Nicolò thought himself better than that but he doesn’t want to think of living his life without Yusuf by his side. He is selfish, incredibly so but in the pain of his soul the only solace he finds is in Yusuf’s hand in his own, warm, solid, real under his own. It makes him feel sick with disgust and guilt. Yusuf hasn’t spoken a word about it yet but he knows him. He knows the way he holds himself, stiff, refusing care and attention. He knows his heart ache in all the same way.

He sees Andromache locked in her grief but they cannot allow that, not when they have no death ahead of them, nothing waiting to take their suffering and pain away. For the first time in a long, long time, Nicolò doesn’t know what to say to soothe her wounds. He barely knows how to keep Yusuf standing, his shoulders burdened by the loss of his sister, the one who made him laughs through any despair. He has no idea how to push through the walls of pain inside his own heart.

“Thank you, Andromache.” He finds himself whispering and it tastes even worse in his mouth when one tear falls from her eye and rolls down her face, lonely, frozen cold before it could fall down on the ground. She clenches her jaw and stares ahead, wordlessly. Nicolò bites his tongue as Yusuf squeezes his hand. He’s too silent. Nicolò wished he could do something more than hold onto him like a man at sea does with his ship’s wreckages. He closes his eyes and listens to Yusuf’s ragged breath.

~*~*~

They ate, a little. As much as they could stomach at least. They cooked a couple of fish they found in a creek and forced Andromache to drink some water but she refused any bite of the flesh or the last slices of bread in their bag. Nicolò took them gingerly from Yusuf’s hand who insisted. He knows he worried him while he was under the sea, and if it can bring him some peace he’ll eat all the bread he’ll be given him.

The winds are howling through the broken windows and for the first time in these recent years Nicolò cannot bear the silence. It’s usually a soothing balm from the too loud, too quick world around him. Today, it feels like a thick and cold oil slithering down his clothes to run along his back, freezing his spine and lungs with horror. With urgent movements he rummages through his bag for his instrument, throat squeezed tight and fingers shaking.

Nicolò takes his guitar, a small thing of an instrument, barely bigger than his forearm with a flat back and only four strings. It is old already —and yet so new to him—, too old for these days but it’s all they could allow themselves with their low funds; all spend on ships and crew and expeditions in growing dangerous waters.

He wished he had his lute, or an oud instead, but it is easy to travel with an instrument you can tuck between two bags and bards still let tongues flow easily around them. He couldn’t part way with it, even when his heart wasn’t in the mood for music he still performed his duties. Andromache doesn’t look up from her hands —tight fists with whitening knuckles— when he starts playing. Yusuf, who had been watching him looking through their bags ticks his tongue and sits back, his eyebrows uncomfortably pinched over his face, forehead slashed by lines of worry.

Four courses is a stupid number of strings for an instrument, Nicolò bitterly thinks as he starts plucking them. It’s not beautiful, his frozen cold fingers are too stiff, the strings are old and sound like vulgar pieces of cords. He hates it and yet, he can’t help the need he has to play, to do something, to make anything that’s not pitiful sounds and rage-filled cries. He remembers first learning this song, Quỳnh was still with them. She did not listen to it, too busy playing with her own love’s hair, whispering in her ear and drinking wine. Yusuf sat with her, claiming he did not want such sorrowful song in his fine evening. How Nicolò wished he had one more night with them, still whole.

Nicolò watches as Andromache tightens her lips and digs her nails into her skin, but she still doesn’t move. The ayre is easy to play, its beauty resides in its simplicity. He still has to start anew four times before he can get his head straight and play through the melody. The shaking in his fingers doesn’t go away, just like his teeth stay clenched. And Yusuf, at loss for any other refuge, starts singing. It’s been so long since he last heard him sing anything, it makes everything worse.

“ _Flow, my tears,_ ” Yusuf is using English, cursed language, but they all know the words, even if Andromache never heard the song before. “ _Flow, my tears, fall from your springs. Exiled, for ever, let me mourn._ ” The fire cracks and Nicolò watches as Andromache’s face is contorted with pain. She’s trying to keep the tears in her eyes, but they’re too much to hold back.

“ _And tears and sighs and groans my weary days, my weary days of all joys have deprived._ ” Nicolò hears the loud, broken sob at his side before he can see it break her face. In a second, she crumbles and folds herself, tucks her face between her knees, fingers furiously clawing at her shins. Her entire body is shaken by violent sobs, muffled by her clothes and still heart wrenching.

Nicolò doesn’t stop playing, not when Yusuf briefly lays his hand over his shoulder before standing up. He’s the one to walk up to her and sit by her side. He circles his arms around her doubled over figure, pulls her and forces her into an embrace. Held tight by a friend. She refuses, pushes back against him and growls under her cries and curses him to hell and back with all the pain her heart bears.

“ _My fortune is thrown, and fear and grief and pain for my desert, for my deserts are my hope, since hope is gone._ ” There are tears falling down Yusuf’s cheeks but he keeps singing with his wavering voice. Nicolò watches as he keeps rocking Andromache against him. He’s holding her down as she struggles, pushing and clawing and screaming through wails of sorrow. Yusuf never let go, he squeeze her arms and caress her mated hair until the fight finally leaves her. It’s heartbreaking to see it happen, as if all her strings were cut down in an instant. She sags in Yusuf’s arms, sob through bitten lips.

She’s got nothing anymore in her, she’s nothing more than an empty shell. The cries continue in silence, horrid, long and painful. She’s barely able to suck air into her lungs and Nicolò wonders how many times she wished, asked, begged to be the one drowning in Quỳnh’s place. She let go of her fight and Yusuf gently guides her against his chest, keep a hand by her shoulder, the other press her head to his shoulder, careful fingers threaded through her dark locks.

“ _Happy, happy they that in hell feel not the world’s despite._ ” She fists a hand into his jacket and Yusuf gently wraps her into his cloak as best as he can. He sings, soft, slowly in her ears until she let her eyes close. How long has it been since she allowed herself to rest?

Nicolò doesn’t stop playing once the ayre reaches its end. If he were to stop now, he doesn’t think he’d be able to keep his own screams inside. He looks down at his left hand, still playing; mechanical, soulless, empty. Yusuf doesn’t stop either, he keeps humming under his breath, old lullabies with words forgotten by all, even them. It seems fitting Nicolò darkly thinks.

*

He’s not sure how much time passes until he finally sees Andromache let go of her grip on consciousness to what he hopes is a dreamless state, for her sake. Yusuf’s voice broke a while ago already, just when the fire died. There are barely any incandescent coals left warming the night but neither of them has moved to reignite it. Yusuf’s eyes are dry, hollow, nothing like the glowing pearls that usually smiles at him. His face looks so old, so tired.

He’s not sure why now, but it’s only then that he let himself cry, under Yusuf’s pained eyes, holding onto a sleeping Andromache as if letting go would mean losing her too. It might make her lose any of her remaining grasps on sanity. They don’t need words. The same horror that Andromache feels has stricken their hearts too. He doesn’t want to think about what he would become if Yusuf were the one stuck in that coffin at the bottom of the ocean, lost forever to hateful madness.

“Nicolò.” Yusuf calls, and it feels like ages since he heard his voice. “My moon, Nicolò, look at me.” He’s begging and Nicolò is weak, so weak.

“Yusuf.” His fingers falter and they fall away from the neck of the guitar, blood drowned from their tips and aching. It breaches the dam he imposed to himself with surprising violence. He cries then, feels the burning tears scorch his skin before freezing down his jaw; he feels his shaking lungs and the way his hands fist his tunic, holding onto anything that feels real.

“I love you,” Yusuf says, soft, hurting, relieved and ashamed and so many other things. Over and over in every languages they know he swears his love and Nicolò can only say one thing, one pitiful and selfish word but he can’t help it.

“Don’t leave me.” It’s nothing of a question but it’s everything. Yusuf’s eyebrows are pinched over his forehead and his own eyes well up as well.

“I won’t.”

“I will never leave you,” Nicolò vows. It tastes like a false promise, like heresy and sins to promise something he cannot guarantee, something he’ll never have control over but right now, right now it’s just enough fantasy to make their horror more bearable.

Yusuf raises one hand from Andromache’s still figure and Nicolò wastes no time. He leaves his guitar behind as he drags his tired bones to Yusuf, plastering himself to his side and reaching around him and Andromache to squeeze them into a too tight, too painful hug. Yusuf nuzzles into his neck, his warm breath ghosting over the small line of skin visible above his cloak and he cannot hold back anymore. He can hear his own quiet sobs and Yusuf pulls him closer by the collar, tug him down until nothing separates them.

Death isn’t there to welcome them when the cold takes them that night, she sends them back again to the earth. They shall go on again with the course of life, once it feels easier to fill their lung with air, once it doesn’t feel like oil traps any and each of their steps. What other choice do they have?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Flow, my tears – John Dowland](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M5l3N1nv1Kg)


	7. The Baroque Guitar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joe and Nicky settle in near a town in the south of Spain. They meet with an old tracador and learn about music, life and love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. There’s sure a pandemic going on huh. I hadn’t realized how much it impacted me until I started working on this chapter and saw the outline I wrote. This isn’t outwardly about the current situation, but this chapter deals with an isolated old man at the end of his life being cared for by Joe and Nicky. If these themes are too much for you, I kindly encourage you to skip this chapter. I’ll put a quick summary of the chapter content regarding the guitar talked about here in the end notes.

**South of Spain, near Utrera, 1688**

Yusuf wakes up warm and content, a far cry from his usual morning for the past two decades. His nose buried against Nicolò’s neck, arms and legs tangled with his love, he’s the most comfortable he’s been in a long while. He’s almost too hot under the covers, a welcomed sensation after the cold weather of northern Europe. He missed this feeling, bare skin brushing against bare skin from head to toe, nothing between them, as close to becoming one and whole as they’ll ever be able to.

Nicolò is awake already, he feels it in the slow and controlled breathing pattern under his hand, in the way he’s careful to not move. He smiles and without moving a single muscle presses a kiss against his neck, a soft touch of lips that must tickle he thinks.

“Good morning my love.” He says, whispers with his sleep rough voice and Nicolò’s shoulders relax.

“Morning _tesoro_.” The sun is starting to show at the window and warmth seeps into his bones. “Sleep well?”

“Better than I have in years.” It always takes some time to settle down after leaving a war. Yusuf first thought, hoped really, that it would get easier with time but it doesn’t. He’s thankful for that now, for the constant reminder of his humanity. He’s not sure what he would have become were he to feel cut off from mankind.

It never gets easier and it shouldn’t, not when sorrow and pain are sowed into the grounds, not when lives are taken. But it is a burden they all had to learn to bear, and sometimes it’s heavy. Hard to get a restful night when the dreams are haunted by deaths and violence and horrors.

He feels Nicolò’s fingers tighten around his wrist and he buries closer to his back. Always first in his thoughts, first to bring him back.

“Thanks.” He whispers over his skin, forces himself to concentrate on him, on Nicolò and the smell of their sheet and the sun on his face. The musk of clean sweat and soap surrounding him.

“We should get up; we need to go to the town market. We have no meat left and barely any vegetables.” Nicolò says but there’s no real conviction in his words.

Yusuf hums, closes his eyes and intertwines their fingers together. The callouses feel familiar with his own. “In a moment.” He says and Nicolò’s soft chuckle is the brightest sound he heard yet. He plants another kiss between his shoulder blades and loses himself to sleep again.

*

“Nicolò?”

“Hmm?” Nicolò is distracted by the stall of nuts laid in front of him. He carefully touches them, judges the best shape and color to buy.

“Do you remember the first time you tried to roast hazelnuts?”

“If I do remember.” Nicolò smiles as he picks a couple of handful of nuts to put in their bags. He takes coins out and hands them to the merchant to count. “It was such a mess.”

“Yes, it was.” Yusuf smiles recalling the memory. A warm evening in the desert, which one he isn’t sure but he remembers the sand around them and the moon rising at the horizon. Nicolò was trying his hand at new stew and soup recipes, testing new ingredients as often as he could for a couple of months.

“Remember how I put them whole in the pot and they all exploded over the fire? I got stew all over myself.”

“It was such a great day.” It’s at these words that Nicolò turns his head to look at him, take in his dreamy expression. Then he laughs. No, not laugh, he snorts; that very ugly sound he does that sounds like heaven to Yusuf’s ears, right at the back of his throat. The kind of snort that never misses to bring a large, brilliant smile over Nicolò’s face.

“Of course it was for you. I had to entirely disrobe in front of you.”

“First time I got to look at these broad shoulders of yours _ya amar_. A day to write down in the books if I may say so.” Nicolò snorts again, this time with much less grace and discretion than the first time.

“You are incorrigible my love. We are at the market.” He tries to sound coy but really, he is pleased with himself if the blush he sports over his nose is anything to go by. After six centuries one does not feel embarrassment anymore, no to them blushes are born of very pleasant thoughts and few specific moods. Nicolò gently bump their shoulders and Yusuf prolongs the contact some more, basking in the warm flesh against his, the solid weight of Nicolò’s arm against his own, shoulders to wrists.

“And you’re the one holding hazelnuts in your hand _habibi_. Not my fault.” And Nicolò stops walking, instead he turns completely toward Yusuf and the expression over his face— Yusuf wants to cry. It’s been so long since he saw it over his love’s face. That content, pleased expression, the one where his eyes crinkle gently at the corner and he allows himself to twist his lip into that ghost of a smirk of his. Like a cat after eating a spoon of cream would, almost smug about how good it feels.

It’s that moment, with that ugly snort that never fails to fill Yusuf with such a sense of love and peace, it’s right then that he genuinely feels —for the first time in the month or so they left the Ottoman front— that he well and truly left the war behind him. Nicolò can laugh, _Yusuf_ can make him laugh all he wants and he’s free to feel happy. Unburdened, unbothered. Safe.

It comes as no surprise that Nicolò reads his thoughts before he can sort them out himself. His smirk turns into a sappy grin and in no time he has his arms around Yusuf, one hand splayed at the nape of his neck, tucking him in his own shoulder.

“We’re here my love. We’re fine, Andromache is fine too. It’s okay.” Yusuf closes his eyes and allows the tears to come and go as they please, nose nuzzled against Nicolò, his smell filling him, hands warm over his back.

“I always forget how much I miss these days. The one of peace, of simple life. The feeling always comes back with a vengeance when we find them again.” Nicolò sneaks a kiss to the side of his head, over his curls and just above his ear before the looks of the other present at the market make themselves too heavy and he pushes away, still keeping one hand in Nicolò’s. They plan on staying here, it’s better if they do not make waves.

*

The trip back to their house is spent in silence, Nicolò holding onto the mule’s lead rope while Yusuf balances the clean scrolls and leathers he could find at the market. They don’t speak, they don’t need to. Apart from the few noises of encouragement to the mule from Nicolò, Yusuf let himself be lost in his thoughts, let them run free as he watches the landscape go around them.

They got the house they occupy barely five days ago, bought it for almost nothing. It’s well outside of the town they settled for, far from commodities, help, far from other households, far from the noise; everything they are looking for these days. They were told there is someone else living in the neighboring lands in another small farming housing about ten minutes on foot from them. They haven’t met him yet, too busy cleaning and fixing the old house, finding which story to tell the locals to explain their new arrival, how they met, which dates. Yusuf used to do something like that during his trips with his father, to be sure they would all have the same story to tell. It doesn’t carry the same weight when you have to choose a date of birth multiple centuries later than your own.

This first excursion in the city is a test of sort, to see if they can fit in, if they can be accepted by the population, if they are welcomed. If they feel they can stay here, settle for a period of two to three decades —never more than four— if Allah allows them this much time before their help is called to another war, another conflict, another catastrophe.

And so far, Yusuf can see himself building a life here, within the warm land of Andalusia, near a small river and with a couple of fruit trees behind the house already. The oranges tasted sweet when he ripped one open this morning.

“We should go meet the neighbor,” Yusuf says as he opens the entrance door with his elbow, trying to keep all the goods in his arms. He hears Nicolò hum behind him, fingers busy tying the mule’s lead rope to a post near a bucket of water. “It’s almost been a week, and he must have already gotten words of our presence. It would be rude to not introduce ourselves.” Yusuf peaks through the door to watch as Nicolò takes the bags off the mule.

“I was thinking of bringing him some of the bread we made yesterday.” He effortlessly picks up the conversation as he makes his way to the house. “You know the one with wheat and rye?”

“It would be great.”

They make a quick affair of putting their recent acquisitions away. Over the fire, Nicolò start on the stew as they both take care of the various meat and vegetables. They’ll work on putting them in salt and smoking, pickling and drying them when they can take their time with it. Yusuf has made sure to buy honey at the market to keep some figs for the colder months, when they’ll miss the warm weather. As Nicolò takes care of the meal, he carefully lays his new papers, leather and pigments in the little chest he found pushed under the bed. They join his already present bound book for his sketches, quills and ink and charcoals he cannot travel without.

The sun is still high in the sky when they reach the neighboring property, Yusuf’s hands full of the sweet bread he kneaded yesterday morning. They find the farm in a sad state, as bad as theirs is. But theirs had been left to rot for more than seven years. There are no animals in the pens save for half a dozen chicken in a small pasture, no wheat nor potatoes planted in the fields. Yusuf is starting to worry they got the direction wrong when he spots a man sitting under a tree near the small house behind the barn.

“Good day!” Yusuf calls as he walks closer.

“Who are you.” The old man says, voice cold and harsh.

“We bought the house near yours. The one near the little river.” Nicolò explains. “We wanted to introduce ourselves to you.”

“I don’t care.” The man is frowning. His face is marred by deep lines and wrinkles, skin burnished by the sun and his hair whitened like bone left in the desert. His hands are clutching the armrests of his wooden chair but he makes no move to stand up or offer a handshake.

“We bought bread. As a token of our good intentions.” But the man grunts and looks away.  
“You can leave it on the barrel here. I’ll take it.” Yusuf sneaks a glance at Nicolò who is frowning next to him.

“You live alone here? We didn’t see anyone else.”

“That’s none of your business. You can leave now.”

“If you want us to.” Yusuf nods and puts the bread where the man asked him to. “We bid you a good evening _señor_.” There are no responses, not that Yusuf expected any.

Everything about him screams mean and in search of peace, asking to be left alone. But Yusuf and Nicolò know better, they are old, wise even. They have seen a lot of mankind.

~*~*~

They come back every Saturday, neither Friday not Sunday, and it’s always the same welcoming. The same frowned month and cold glare and monosyllabic answers. But it feels wrong to leave someone alone, even more so on such a big farm. They don’t need to consult each other before deciding to come back every week.

The fourth time, they find the chair under the tree empty. They walk into the house to see the old man still in bed even though the sun shines bright and high in the sky. He’s coughing so hard he’s choking on it, the sound painful in the empty house. Immediately Nicolò is by his bed, supporting him and rubbing his back while Yusuf grabs a bucket and runs to the well to draw up water.

The attack passes after a long while as Yusuf help him hold on the cup and slowly drink water to ease his hurting throat. When it finally calms and Nicolò feels confident enough to take off his hands, the old man refuses to meet their eyes. He seems ashamed.

“Are you alright?” Yusuf asks, and the man takes a while to answer.

“Yes.” His voice is laced with gravel, rumbling painfully, sore. “You can leave now.” Nicolò looks up from the slouched shoulders and he already thinks what Yusuf is thinking.

“Do you want us to leave?” And that seems to be the right thing to say because suddenly the man’s elbows buckle under his weight and he sags against him. Instinctively Yusuf’s other hand comes to his shoulder to hold him up. “We can stay, as long as you want.” He adds.

“I’m sick.” He says, confesses almost in a trembling voice. He’s looking at the ground, eyes stubbornly fixed there. “Been sick for a long time, but it’s getting worse. I’m told I won’t live through the winter.”

“Why don’t you go live in Utrera? In the city? They have a doctor there, I’m sure he’d be of help.” Nicolò says with kindness in his voice.

“And leave the farm? No.” He violently shakes his head. “I was born here; I’ll die on this land.” And Yusuf would call him a fool if he didn’t understand, deeply, the attachment one has to his land.

“And your family?” He shakes his head again.

“They died. All of them.” He pauses but Yusuf knows condolences won’t help here. “The rest left a long time ago. It was only me and my wife for almost ten years. She passed four years ago now.” It’s an awfully long time to be alone Yusuf thinks, pain seizing his heart. Too long for anyone, even more so for an old man who is looking at the end of his life. These times should not be spent alone.

“You can leave.” The man seems to get a hold on himself again and shame rise in his eyes. “I don’t need pity.” And that’s the problem, isn’t it? To be treated like a child, like an incompetent after a long and brave life working the land.

“Nicolò and I, we had to leave our family behind,” Yusuf says. “When I look at you, I see my own father. Believe me, you inspire no pity in my heart.”

“It is not charity my friend,” Nicolò says. “when we offer help. It is love; it is care. Humans, they care for one another. This is how life is supposed to be. We are not made to be alone, on our own.”

“Are you angels?” He asks, and there’s a laugh bubbling out of Yusuf’s throat. It feels small, timid in this room but it’s a start.

“I can assure you we are not.” He says. “But we can be there for you, if you let us.”

“Then who are you? Why did you come here?”

“We sought peaceful land to rest,” Nicolò says.

“We come back from long travels and war. I’m Yusuf ibn Ibrahim ibn Muhammad ibn al-Kaysani. Called al-Tayyib.” It’s not often he gives his entire name, more often he settles for a surname, a shortened version. Most people don’t need this knowledge. But most people won’t share their life, and Yusuf likes to be as truthful as he can in his relationship, it makes things easier, more trustful. It brings people closer.

“Nicolò di Genova.” His love offers from his side, a hand over his chest.

“My name is Hector de Sevilla. But you can call me Hector.” And Yusuf smiles.

“It’s my pleasure to meet you Hector.”

*

It’s easy to fall into a routine, all three of them are starving for one. If somehow hesitant at first, each day is spent with Hector. They usually come to his house during the week to help with the chores, to spend time with him and at the end of the week if he feels good enough, he will come to Yusuf and Nicolò’s house.

They talk, a lot. Sometimes neither of them will speak a word and they’ll listen to Hector’s stories, his life, his children, how he met his wife Isabel, that time as a kid he tried to scare a friend and fell into a river, ruining his brand-new shirt. Other times, he and Yusuf will speak of art and poetry and travel, sometimes it’s Nicolò talking about food and cooking, family secret Hector is willing to spill for Nicolò only. Other days, when Hector is tired, they come to his bedside and they talk about them, their life. The two magnificent warriors they walked the earth with, the mundane beauty and miracles they witnessed everywhere. They blur the dates; and he doesn’t ask for too many details.

The sun is shining high in its zenith and they are tying their boots tight. If Hector isn’t there by then it means his illness is making him too frail for the short walk and so they come to his house. They speak nonsense on their way to the farm, carrying bags of provision and new herbs Nicolò wants to try with Hector, see if it helps with the weight in his chest.

“You’ll never guess what Nico did this morning!” Yusuf says as he walks into the home. Hector is sitting in his bed but he’s dressed and there’s a half-eaten loaf of bread on the table, it’s good. Today isn’t as bad a day as he can have.

“Did he walk into a door when holding food again?” Which happened only once and it was because Yusuf had just walked out of his bath and he knows he would have reacted in the same way if Nicolò was the one standing naked in front of him while he’s holding a pot of very hot food. It doesn’t keep him from teasing though, or Hector from holding it over Nicolò for the past two months.

“No, worse.” He says in a tone of conspiration as Nicolò tries to hush him.

“Don’t tell him that, he’ll think I’m an idiot.” But he’s smiling as he says so, already unloading their bags on the table.

“It’s okay Nicolò. You can be very smart and still mistake a lynx for a cat and try to pet it.” Hector laughs, loud and bright and it warm Yusuf’s heart.

“Hush you. It was still a cub, very small. I got no scratch.” Which, Yusuf knows isn’t true, it’s just that they healed before he could see them.

“You make this mistake only once!” Hector laughs, and Yusuf knows he’ll prompt this story out of him later, once they settle to eat their meal.

“I got new herbs at the apothecary yesterday,” Nicolò says once they’ve calmed down. “I know they can help with cough and painful articulations. I was wondering if you’d want to try taking them?”

“I trust you Nicolò, anything you want me to drink; I’ll drink. You have good taste in wine.” He winks and laughs, and so do they. “I have a pot somewhere in the back, you can make the tea if you find it.” And so Nicolò leaves to the backroom while Yusuf takes out the food they got for him this morning and start on the stew, something hearty and good, with many spices and the best pieces of meat they have. Yusuf makes a note to spoon some more for Hector’s plate, he likes rabbit a lot.

“I didn’t know you play,” Nicolò says as he walks back into the room with the teapot in one hand and a guitar in the other.

“What?”

“The guitar that I found in the back room too.” He walks into Hector’s view from the bed and show the instrument.

“Oh, that old thing.” But there’s a smile dancing over Hector’s lips.

“Maybe it’s old, but it’s a stunning piece of art.” Nicolò fills the aging teapot he retrieved from the backroom.

“I’m a Tracaore, just like my father, and his father too.” And there’s pride in his voice. His face already seems younger by a decade just mentioning it. Nico does that too sometimes when he can mention he knows music too to some traveler. That pride just waiting to be shown when a skill is mentioned, when the opportunity to display those skills on an instrument presents itself.

Hector’s guitar is a stunning instrument, a masterful piece of craft, Yusuf is sure of that. It is as long as an arm with a slender frame and a flat back, five courses of string stretching over a deep brown soundboard. Yusuf isn’t sure of the wood used for its construction but it has a honey undertone and shiny varnish over its surface. But the most impressive is the ornamentation littering the guitar, from its neck where intricate dot works expand over the surface to the edge of the body lined with white lace-like details. And the rose, the masterpiece of the instrument, is done with a fine hand, intricated construction of delicate craft that goes deep in the body. It is almost architectural in its form Yusuf thinks, and his fingers itch to study it with a closer look.

“Tomorrow, when my bones feel better, I’ll play you something,” Hector says and they all know it’s more likely to be next week, his pain attack usually last three days before the medicine can calm it down. “But I’m curious, do you play Nicolò di Genova?” And Nicolò smiles, his barely-there grin that softens his entire face.

“I do. I learned long ago. Yusuf taught me the oud when we first met.” He explains as he takes the guitar back from Hector. “It was easy to learn the guitar too after that.” He doesn’t mention seeing it first appear on the continent, there’s no need.

“Will you play something?” Hector asks, slowly sitting up in the bed. “It’s been so long since I heard music, I miss it.”

“I fear you might not find it enjoyable.” Nicolò inclines his head. “It’s been a while since I played too Hector, and I fear my skills are old, too old to be to your taste.”

“Eh, nonsense.” Hector throw his hand in the hair in such a recognizable motion, it feels like seeing his own family all over again, his baba arguing with his brothers about prices and routes to take for their travel to a neighboring land to sell their goods. Yusuf cherishes the pain in his heart and keep their memory alive for a few more moments. “It can’t be older than I am. These old bones have seen a lot, my son.” That makes Nicolò chuckle out loud but he does take a chair closer to the bed.

“If you insist then.” Since the last time Yusuf saw a guitar it grew bigger, and they added a fifth course of string. But it hasn’t changed as much as the music style changed. There’s so much more in Europe now, ensembles of dozens of musicians conducted by a single man, something neither he nor Nicolò had witnessed. Yusuf who grew with music shared, felt within the heart of everyone present, was somewhat thrown when he saw those people following the lead of the master, blindly guided, following written direction rather than feeling it. Nicolò had said nothing but the frown on his face was all Yusuf needed to know his opinion about it.

Thankfully the music for the guitar hadn’t followed this trend and Nicolò could keep his playing with bards and singers the few occasion they could afford an instrument or the leisure time. But it’s been a long time since either of them had time for art. It’s hard to come by an instrument on the road, and wars and battlefields aren’t the best places to play music and draw.

Nicolò sits on the chair, guitar balanced on his right thigh. He slowly works the tunning peg, wind them progressively as he tests the tunes of the strings. It’s slow work, careful to not snap the string or break the instrument as it is old. The tuning has stayed the same over these past decades. Once it is tuned, Nicolò takes a moment to struggle through new scales and melody, remembering them. Without practice, the skills get rusty after all.

He starts playing an old tune, back from the 14th century when he started to pick up on the lute. It’s a simple one but entertaining enough, and it makes good use of the picking Nicolò grew so fond of since then. Yusuf sits back as he listens to his love. He missed it too, the music that every so often fills their life.

Nicolò looks up from his hand to smile at Yusuf, because they both remember when they learned it. They both had drunk a little too much, and Nicolò struggled through learning lines because he couldn’t help but kiss Yusuf as often as possible. The bard they shared the room with was so full of wine too that he was laughing too hard to really teach anything anyway. Yusuf still has a messy sketch he haphazardly drew from this night, mainly Nicolò’s lips and hands all over the pages and senseless lines of poetry to the glory of Nicolò’s beauty and talent. He kept those, for when he needs to have a laugh.

Yusuf is brought out of his thought when the music suddenly stops and Hector is speaking by his side. He shakes his head and tune back into the conversation, already planning to dig up these drawing later if he can find them, for old time’s sake.

“You play like they do in France,” Hector says. “Like they do everywhere else. We don’t do that here.”

“No?”

“Oh no.” Hector shakes his head and smile. “We don’t do _punteado_ here. We have _rasgueado_ , we strum the string.”

“I can strum too.” Nicolò doesn’t have a tone on the defensive, no he’s amused and interested, curious. Always is when he has the opportunity to learn something new.

“Not like we _tracaore_ can. We strum through the whole song; in a manner you’ve never heard before.” There’s a glimmer in his eyes that Yusuf likes to see there. Such a stark change from the first few days they stayed with him. He seems happy, impatient even to what will happen next. Yusuf smiles as Nicolò go lay the guitar next to the bed and talk technicalities with Hector.

*

“No!” Hector sighs again. “No Nicolò, you need more strength, more vigor. You’re caressing the strings when you need to beat them.”

“I apologize Hector, but that is not in my hands.” Hector takes the guitar back and sets it over his thigh horizontally, whereas Nicolò still has the reflex to lay it at an angle, neck pointed toward the ceiling. His old, knobbled hand wrap around the neck and settle over the strings, and he has the patience of a man who had many children in his life.

“Here, look.” And he demonstrates again. He taps twice over the soundboard with his thumb and then starts on the song he’s been trying to teach Nicolò for the best part of the morning.

It’s fast-paced, and his hands seem to be flying over the strings with how fast it’s going. He alternates up and down strokes with well times slap and touches to the soundboard that give rhythm to the song like no other style of playing can. The percussions flow smoothly with the melody and Hector is assured in his change of tempo or chords. Yusuf can hear how he relies on improvisation and liberty of interpretation because no two interpretation of the song is the same, there’s always something _more_ added. Just by listening to it Yusuf wants to stand and move to the rhythm; he’s really curious as to what the dancing associated with this music looks like. It must be something truly alive, burning with passion and festive spirit.

It’s so different from what he’s used to, what they’re both used to in Europe. When Hector first played for them, Nicolò couldn’t help but turn to him.

“Yusuf!” He said. “ _The scales! It’s the same as our maqâmât._ ” He exclaimed in Arabic. Yusuf felt a distant longing for home as he listened to Hector beat those poor strings with his hand, left fingers flying over the neck and pinching chords after chords as he sang about death, lost love and home, the troubling emotions dealt with through art. It felt good, for once, to hear a musician feel the music and its rhythm rather than follow written sheet as they had for so long here. Yusuf missed the sense of liberty he gets when the artist improvises and plays with the instrument he’s given, as they did back home. Nicolò was feeling some restraint toward the method of playing though.

“You were always more fond of the traditions my Nicolò,” Yusuf laughed as Nico tried the new techniques. “Even in weapons. Only medicine you like to walk with, but you’d rather leave art in the past.”

“Not the past, no.” Nicolò frowned. “It’s just-” And he sighed before he could finish his sentence or find a reasonable thing to say, and Yusuf only laughed harder.

“The music, at its core, is three things.” Hector had said, holding up three fingers. “ _Cante_ , _Toque_ , _Baile_. You sing, you play, you dance. Without that, there’s no heart to the music.” Hector took the guitar over his laps and looked at Nicolò. “Now, we don’t have a dancer but I’m not the worst _cantaor_ you’ll find around here. But I am the best _tocador_ here.” He added with mirth.

For two weeks now Hector has been teaching Nicolò his ways with the guitar, slowly but with the firm hand of a tutor giving him his knowledge and skills on this new style of playing. And even though he learns it well, for the first time Yusuf sees him struggle with a new technique on the instrument. It never happened, even the intricate and complex picking style of Europe did not phase his Nicolò as much as the concept of using your thumb to tap the soundboard does.

Which is how Yusuf ended up with the guitar over his own lap as Hector insisted on teaching him some too, despite his earnest protests about how little of a musical mind he has. It turns out, Yusuf is great at feeling rhythm over melody, and with work he masters the simplest song of Hector’s repertoire under Nicolò’s proud gaze, and his own great surprise. His mind gets caught up on the music still, but the more up-front approach suits him better than his love’s fancy melody. He says so and earns a playful tap from him over his shoulder.

When Hector is too bad to teach him, it’s Nicolò who takes the instructor role and show him some of his techniques, the picking ones that he knows he won’t master but it doesn’t matter because he has all of Nicolò’s attention and hands on him for a few hours, and that’s enjoyable enough to forget the frustration playing usually gives him. And it gets Hector in a good mood to see them play around each other. It reminds Yusuf of when Nicolò was still learning Arabic and he taught him calligraphy, patiently guiding his hand over the characters over and over. Or when he showed him sculpture and clay, how happy Yusuf felt at Nicolò’s joy when he made his first realistic portrait in stone —Yusuf’s, of course.

It seems, even in art they cannot stop being each other, being what the other needs and what he lacks. How Nicolò can model with his hands better than Yusuf’s clumsy attempt at sculpting, how the strumming and singing always came easier to Yusuf compared to Nicolò’s halted voice and lack of vigor in strumming down like Hector. Even to his day Nicolò still finds pieces of wood to carve when his restless mind needs peace. He’s gotten quite good at birds and fishes, the scales and feathers done in great detail. Yusuf has no doubt he’ll use his voice more often now that he can use instruments in an entertaining way to his eager mind.

~*~*~

Winter comes and passes quietly around them and Hector gets to see the spring’s first summer ray. He sits in his chair, blanket over his laps. He’s silent for a long while and Yusuf doesn’t try to fill it. And then there are tears tracking down his face and he clumsily reaches out for Yusuf’s hands. He grabs them, squeeze them tight and set his gaze into his.

“Thank you.” He says, voice grave and trembling with emotions. “Thank God for putting you in my path, for everything you’ve given me these past months.”

“There’s no need to thank me.”

“You’ve given me one last summer. One summer spent with good people, not alone. This is a gift with more worth than every chest of gold on this earth.” He rests a hand on his cheek, a cold, rough hand and rub his thumb against his cheek. “You have a big heart and you’re not afraid of sharing it.” He says. “You are a good man Yusuf al Kaysani, don’t you ever forget that.”

If Yusuf cries too, well. The tears are shared in joy.

*

“For how long have you been drawing?” Hector asks when Yusuf opens his pouch where he keeps his charcoals and graphite lead.

“For as long as I can remember.” He says as he takes a chair and sit by Hector’s side. “My own mother used to tell me, even as a child I would find piece of chalk and stones to mark the ground with lines. I would crush fruits to smear over walls and slabs.” He recalls with a laugh. Nicolò is by the barn, caring for the chicken and throwing grains and the peels from this day’s meal for them.

“You any good?” And Yusuf can recognize a teasing tone when he hears one. He did spend centuries with Quynh— with his family. They give as good as they take on this front.

“You tell me.” He says as he offers his bound bundle of paper for Hector to look through. It feels safe to hand this one, most of his portraits of Nicolò are scattered across other loose papers in their house. He uses this one when he moves, to sketch landscape and landmark and building that catches his eyes, the few animals that will stay still long enough for him to capture them on paper.

“You are talented.” Hector nods as he looks through the drawing. “This is impressive.” He comments over the portraits of a girl he did at the Sevilla market a few months ago. She was smiling brightly at her mother; he remembers it because she was asking for some sort of treat she likes.

“I could draw you too. If you wanted.”

“No, no one needs my ugly mug on paper. That’s not to be kept in ages.” Yusuf laughs, big and bright and he instinctively spots Nicolò as he turns back toward him. It’s crazy, how simply hearing him laughs will put a smile over Nicolò’s face. He’s quick to turn back to his task.

“I could draw your family. Your wife.” And Hector falls silent.

“You could do that?”

“If I have a good enough description, I can do my best yes.”

“Good description. I can still see her when I close my eyes. She’s not the kind of person you can forget the face of.” He looks at his hand. “I’m sure my children have grown a lot since I last saw them, but I still know their faces. How could I not.”

They spend the afternoon under the tree, Hector talking about his family, describing them as Yusuf brings them on paper. Nicolò gave them both a drink as the sun started its course down the sky but otherwise neither moved from their seat.

When Yusuf gave him the drawing, Hector fell silent. They did not speak that evening, not even when he and Nicolò left. Hector was still clutching the drawing in his hand when he pulled Yusuf into a hug.

“Thank you.” That’s the only word he said, the rest hanging thick in the air between them, as if anything else would be too hard for him. Yusuf kissed both his cheek as they parted way, promising to be back the next day, as they did every night when leaving Hector.

*

Andromache comes to their house just when the birds start coming back, as if she were the one to guide them home. She is sitting at their table when they come back from Hector’s house, axe in front of her and a drink of ale already in her hand.

“You come back at this hour?” She says with a smile when they both stop at their entrance.

“Andromache?” Joe is the first one in her arm, squeezing her in a tight hug. “We missed you!” He pulls back to look at her. She looks good, well-rested. There are new lines over her face, born of hardship but there’s a spark back in her eyes, a glimmer of hope. Her long hair is tied under a dark cap but she still refuses to wear any skirts and petticoats. She wears mundane clothes, a pair of simple trousers and sturdy riding boots but no armor except for a hook at her belt for the axe. This is the less guarded he has seen her in years.

“I missed you too Yusuf.” She claps her hand over his cheeks and he knows his smile must be blinding because it hurts his cheek. “And you too Nicolò.” He walks up to her for a gentler embrace but just as loving.

“When did you get here?”

“At zenith. I asked for you in Utrera and they told me the couple of foreigners bought the only house outside of town. Of course you would do that. When I saw the blades here there was no doubt, I’d found you. It was just a matter of waiting for you to come back. It would have been nice if it weren’t before sunset.

“We were busy.” Yusuf says as he sits with her. “We have busy days.”

“I thought you wanted to take a few years in peace.” She accepts the piece of filled bread Nicolò lays in front of her in a plate. He’s already lighting up the fire to cook something. It’s so expected, so natural it fills Yusuf’s heart. Andromache’s too, if the pained and loving expression on her face is anything to go back. It’s easy to miss family.

“We’re not working,” Nicolò says. “We have a neighbor, he’s alone. We go spend time with him during the day.”

“I see.” She says, and the conversation quickly changes from the topic to what she has been up to since she left them in Constantinople.

She walks with them to Hector’s farm the next day. Yusuf watches them, sitting under the tree in front of his house. They look so similar, their shoulder heavy and yet hands ready to reach out. But their eyes, those vibrant, deep eyes that have seen life and somehow are still there as witnesses. A few millenniums more for Andromache doesn’t make a difference in the face of a man who lost everything and still tries to get more.

He can’t help but think of Quynh and Isabel. He huddles closer when Nicolò spread an arm over his shoulders and tuck him close to his chest.

Yusuf doesn’t know what they talk about but their conversation is long, serious. There are moments of silence, Andromache only stands up twice to get them water and then wine when the shadows grow longer and they watch the sun sets behind the trees.

That night when they leave Andromache is silent but Hector seems to have found some peace. The lines over his face are less pronounced and his smile seems more genuine. Andromache stays with them for a week but her interactions with Hector are limited, until she says she needs to keep moving. War, she said, take the worries away and only leave you with your instinct to survive. But it’s not enough, it’s dressing a wound without cleaning the blood and sewing it close first. She needs more time, and so they give it to her.

She said she’ll go to the Steppes again, and they gifted her a blade and some bread before she left. It never hurts less to part way but it’s what she needs. Hector doesn’t speak of her again and they don’t volunteer more information either.

*

“Can I see?” Yusuf looks up from his paper to Hector. He’s sitting up in the bed, one hand extended toward him. Nicolò is stirring a pot over the fire, turned away from them as he hums under his breath. He dressed down and laid his jacket over a chair, only in his chemise. It would be indecent if Yusuf and Hector didn’t do the same thing, the summer inflicting its glorious heat on the region for days on end. Yusuf couldn’t help it when he caught Nicolò’s hair stuck by sweat to his neck, barely shinning over the light of the fire.

The drawing is nowhere near indecent, but it’s not an innocent one either. Yusuf looks at it, and he knows what it looks like. He’s known for a long time which emotions go through his art when it depicts Nicolò. He looks gentle in this drawing, Yusuf made sure to capture his side profile, the one where the slope of his nose lightly shade his cheek and make his lips stand out. He knows the care he insists on putting in his eyes, a kind gaze full of love. Really the love he feels put directly on paper. There’s no mistake what he feels for this time when looking at this drawing.

“Here.” He says as he passes the paper to Hector. He’s silent for a moment, eyes fixed on the portrait. He says nothing; and Yusuf calmly waits for his reactions.

“It’s beautiful.” Hector gives back the paper and looks up to Nicolò, pensive. It’s a few moments before he speaks again. “He’s not your friend, is he?”

“No. He’s not.” Yusuf smiles. “He’s more than that. He’s everything to me. My heart, my blood, my life. My moon. When I look up to the sky, I can always see him there, guiding my foot through the darkness. He’s with me even when he’s not, his voice lulls my dreams and his touch brings me peace. He’s been by my side since the beginning and still, he’ll walk with me when it’ll end, that I am sure of as I am sure of Allah’s love and the sun’s awaking each morning.” When he turns his eyes back to Hector, he’s smiling too.

“You remind me of me when I was still young. When I met Isabel. She used to tease me when I said these things to her. But she loved it, she told me once in secrecy.”

“It’s almost ready,” Nicolò calls from the fire. “If you could bring the bread, Yusuf.” Yusuf turns away to answer with an affirmation, saying he’ll be there in a moment. He looks back to Hector only to find him smiling at him.

“What?”

“See, you have the same dizzy smile as I did even when she spoke the most mundane words.” Yusuf would blush if the knowledge of how big his love is wasn’t warming his heart. And also eliciting a certain sense of pride in him. His Nicolò can get these unconscious reactions from him still. Hector catches Yusuf’s wrist in his hand before he can try and stand up.

“You are good to each other. It is a precious thing to find love on this earth. May you keep it for a long time. May it keep you healthy, and happy, and safe.” Yusuf takes Hector’s hands in his own and squeeze them, kisses the knuckles.

“You have no idea what your words mean to me, Hector. Thank you.”

~*~*~

Hector passes away one warm autumn afternoon, a fortnight after the solstice. They watched over him for the past week, careful hands at his side. They helped him eat light soup, broth and soft bread. They listened to his stories, to his incoherent rambling and pained secrets he spilled, the memories he wished to keep alive for some more. Yusuf washed his hands and they slept with him in the house.

He dies in his bed, Yusuf sitting by his side as Nicolò reads him his favorite novel. Yusuf writes down his last words, swear to himself to remember them even in a millennium.

“Let it be known that love comes from everywhere, even the most unexpected hands.” He says, voice wavering before he runs out of breath. Yusuf holds onto his hand until it no longer holds back, Nicolò is the one who gently closes his eyes.

“He had a peaceful death.” Nicolò murmurs and Yusuf has to agree.

“He wasn’t alone.”

They hold a wake for him through the night, and they care for him in death too. Wash him one last time, dress him in his nicest clothes. They dug his grave the orange tree, next to his wife’s, laid him to rest just as the sun touches the horizon. They keep him in their prayers that night.

It takes them two days to sort out the house, clear his belonging and tidy the rooms. They both agreed, wordlessly, to leave it furnished, as best as they could, so any traveler in need could find refuge here. Yusuf, when they leave to their home, take the evening to write a tombstone for him, carefully writes in black ink the last name he shall have on earth.

_Here lies a father, a husband, a son, a brother_

_ Hector de Sevilla _

_Let it be known that love come from everywhere, even the most unexpected hands_

The next day they find Andromache in their house, no longer bringing the spring birds with her but news of war.

“We must go.” She says. She doesn’t ask after Hector, no need when his guitar sits by their bed.

“Yes boss.” Yusuf says and Nicolò has the whetstones out and their blade on the table before it’s even out of his mouth. They do a quick work of the house in a day, empty it and pack their bags under Andromache’s watch. They’re headed to France and the Holy Roman Empire border Andromache told them to deal with the rising tension between the two kingdoms. They leave the guitar in Utrera, gift it to a kid that looks at it with wonder in his eyes, the son of the butcher who would always laugh at Yusuf silly jokes and say ‘hello’ every day, no matter if they would stop to buy from his father or not. They mourn the years they won’t have here, the almost life, mourn for Hector and his family too, those they’ll never see again.

Yusuf finds Nicolò’s eyes as their horses fall in line behind Andromache’s and he knows he’ll be alright. They’ll all be alright, they have each other, all three of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: After fighting in many wars in Europe Joe and Nicky buy a house in southern Spain. In a farm 10 minutes from their own lives an old man who is sick and dying. For a year they care for him, go spend time with him. The man is a trocador, he plays what would eventually be called flamenco but hasn’t that name yet in 17th. Nicky shows his skills on a baroque guitar the man has, and he’ll teach him flamenco techniques in return. The style has strong ties with Arabic music and what they both knew before learning to play the lute in Europe. Eventually, Joe gets interested too and he picks the style up himself, and for the first time he understands the music and can play it, as it’s meant to accompany dancing and singing and not for the sake of the instrument alone. Nicky doesn’t like the style but Joe takes to it quickly and they’ll share the instrument together during that year. The man dies with Joe and Nicky by his side and Andy comes back to them to announce another war they’ll fight in. They gift the guitar to a child in town before leaving.
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr [@salzundhonig](https://salzundhonig.tumblr.com/) if you want to ask something or see me live blog my struggles as I write.


	8. Galante

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Falling asleep to someone’s playing is the most intimate thing that can happen to a musician. Nicolò quite likes this century’s music.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A much shorter chapter, more of a filler than the two previous one but this was very sweet to write and everything I needed right now. Enjoy!

**Ottoman Empire, near Harbiyat, 1757**

“I can’t believe I lost my copy of Swift’s book,” Yusuf complains with a sigh. He picked it up a few weeks back in a little shop, a tale about a giant traveling to foreign lands Nicolò thinks, something along those lines. He was waiting for Yusuf to be done with it before giving it a try himself, but that was postponed after their last visit through a market. It’s gone with one of their pouch, fortunately for them they keep their money in more than one place.

“We’ll find you another copy in the next city,” Nicolò says, reining his horse away from a bush on the side of the road.

“I was halfway through it; it was starting to become really interesting. How long will I have to wait to quench my curiosity.” There’s a dramatic tone in his voice that makes him chuckle, and judging by the look Yusuf throws at him it was the goal.

It is summer, and they are making their journey to Makkat. Andromache has left for Australia, claiming she needs time for herself, and so they decided to take some for themselves too. After so much time spent fighting in wars and helping through horrors, it’s witnessing the Lisbon earthquake and its devastation that sealed the idea for them: they need time away from sorrow themselves. Yusuf felt the need to reconnect with God and find some peace in the work they’re doing, a meaning in their life that Nicolò himself can’t give him, no matter how much he wants to. He’s been doubting some nights himself in face of the horrors the world is moving toward and this journey is as much for his husband as it is for him. They’re traveling alone, just the two of them like it had first been but as often as they can they help fellow pilgrims on the journey to the Kabah.

About a month ago, on their way through the Holy Roman Empire, on bordering Bavarian territories Nicolò found a shop that sold instruments of all kind. They had coins to spare and a long journey ahead, it was a decision easy made to buy an instrument for themselves. Yusuf’s warm smile as they looked through the shop felt good, a lost thing he dearly missed. He picked a guitar, a simple one with few painted details but a sturdy frame the craftsman told him, along with two books of written sheet music to learn from, curious to see what had become of music in their time gone.

“I quite like the sound music has these days.” Nicolò had confessed one night, going through the various tablatures and songs written in the books. The sixth strings they now have on the instrument add more possibility to explore and is quite enjoyable. And in his opinion, the music is gentler than what they had for the past century or so. Much less extravagant and loud for loudness’s sake. No, it’s more subtle, emotional even which he can appreciate, he missed hearing mellow tunes in European inns.

He grew bored of the written songs quite quickly though, and he sold the books in the next city after memorizing a few of his favorites. He’d much rather play music from past days and play around this new instrument, improvise and create on a whim rather than copy other’s works. He tried to apply some Maqâmât and scales he forgot the name of to the instrument, not as successfully as he hoped but it was to be expected now that they are set on this idea of frets and fixed tune in these lands. Oh, how he wishes they had found an oud in that shop. He misses the sound of his first love.

Yusuf still smiled at his very poor approximation of an old lullaby, he even clapped some in his hands toward the end. It ultimately left Nicolò feeling more frustrated than happy, so he didn’t touch the guitar anymore the following days.

And then they found themselves on a busy merchant road, and they met with other pilgrims and they haven’t had a peaceful night in quite some time, busy taking quarter at night to watch over each other and keep quiet to not attract bandits and thieves. 

But they passed Constantinople two days ago, and for the first time in weeks they can relax and settle down, lower some their guards. Yusuf is exhausted, having for the past four days helped a large family on their first Hajj navigate their way through unknown lands. He only left them when they rejoined a bigger group of pilgrims, but he spent all his time looking out for them, sharing stories and words and knowledge with them, connecting on a deeper level than what they’ve been doing for years. He missed that closeness with others Nicolò knows, that’s exactly what he was looking for when they decided on this journey and he’s glad to see his love finding what he needs. Nicolò stayed back, keeping an eye on Yusuf and helping where he could but never overstepping. Out of the two of them he’s the less exhausted and by far.

They take a break from the road when the sun touches the horizon, fortunately finding a spot near a little stream, easy access to water and far from any town, just the two of them. Nicolò set the camp as Yusuf cared for the horse and went to wash by the stream for his salah, learned and known movements that brings comfort, that soothe the soul. He took care of the meal too, boiled a quick and easy stew over the fire and left Yusuf to himself, to reconnect and ground himself, to settle down, finally.

And for the first time in weeks, as the stars are rising high in the sky, he takes the guitar from his bags. He keeps an eye on Yusuf who is washing their bowls, drying them before tucking them back into the bag with easy practice. He twists the peg of the instrument, carefully tuning it.

“Did you know they want to use metal string for the guitar?” He says as Yusuf walks back to him.

“What?”

“Yes. I heard two men from _Napoli_ when we were in Constantinople still. They want to do more with the guitar, and they are thinking of using metal for the strings. I do not know what to think of it.” He always plucked gut strings, and he’s not sure how it would sound with iron or copper or whichever metal they’re thinking of.

Yusuf often tease him because of his appreciation for traditions, but he does think that not everything needs to be changed. There are things better left alone, and _Yusuf you can’t just ditch your scimitar for any new weapons they come up with because the first skills, no matter how little you use them, stay with you for your entire life_. Yusuf tends to tell him _to leave your longsword Nico and pick up firearms more frequently, not everything can be solved by blade now and sometimes efficiency is to be preferred_. It is an argument that’s not really one but they like to have it every decade or so, when novelty appears in how fights are done. They always end up compromising, Yusuf with his sword at his hip and Nicolò with the latest firearm in his hand. It’s familiar, it’s a routine, something he knows they’ll always have and that’ll always bring him a sense of peace, this idea that Yusuf will push forward, always forward when Nicolò grounds in the known and certain.

“You won’t like it,” Yusuf explains as he picks up a cover from his saddle. “And one day we will find a guitar with metal strings and you will try it. You will still not like it, but after some time you’ll accept it and find its advantages.” Yusuf says with an almost blasé voice, and Nicolò has to chuckle because as always he’s right. Of course he is.

“I guess.”

“You only liked when they added more strings.” And now there’s a smile breaking on Yusuf’s face and he settles by Nicolò’s right side, blanket tucked tight over his shoulders, back resting against the rocks while still angling his body toward Nicolò. It’s instinctive for him to twist his torso and faces Yusuf too, he can’t not do that, it’s ingrained in his bones.

“Think of the possibility Yusuf!” He says as his fingers leave the pegs to go rest against the neck.

“I’m thankful you never got your hands on one of their Theorbo,” Yusuf ticks his tongue and shakes his head. “Or else we would have needed a third horse just for that instrument.”

“I still hope to try one some days.” Nicolò says as he strums one chord, smooth and clear. “What do you want me to play?”

“Oh, something from home.” He asks, a smile tugging at his lips. And Nicolò obliges, let the first hesitant but growing with confidence tunes ring out of the guitar, quick fingers plucking note after note.

*

Yusuf has fallen back against the rocks behind him, head resting on the wall of granite, curls spilling like a cushion underneath. He has brought the blanket up to his chin, and despite his eyelids growing heavier by the minutes he’s making a valiant effort to keep them open. And even through his exhaustion he’s still fixing his gaze at Nicolò like he’s the only star in the sky to look at. He abandoned their shared music and the sweet improvisation to go to one of the most recent tunes he learned from the books. It’s easy to let his fingers follow the pattern written down on paper, he had centuries to learn how to do that. It’s familiar, soothing even to have his nails pluck the string over and over, a mechanic that never fails to comfort him.

The fire is dying slowly but Nicolò doesn’t worry about it, they won’t need it for the night, their covers will be enough to protect them against the cold and the wall of rocks shield them from the wind. They only need each other. Nicolò finishes testing his knowledge of the song under Yusuf’s attentive gaze, bright in the night and heavy with love.

He always liked pieces that use the higher tones and this one he picked from the books for this exact reason. It has a smart use of the length of the neck, which he can appreciate after seeing so many pieces that only focused on the farthest end. It’s a mellow tone, one that calls for a flexibility in the rhythm unfound in most of the latest European music —they like the strict cadence so much, it’s a mystery to Nicolò who always preferred the ever-changing and adaptable nature of music. He let his fingers fly over the wooden neck, picking notes of notes easily, keeping it as quiet as the nature of the piece calls for.

Nicolò can’t help himself but watch as Yusuf slowly closes his eyes and let his head lulls to the side too, resting against his shoulder. His eyelashes are caressing his cheeks in such a way that it catches the colors of the fire, painting his skin with gold and dancing lights. His heart swells with warmth. It happened before, Yusuf falling asleep to Nicolò’s playing, happened even when he read a book, Yusuf told him he has a very soothing voice that can bring anyone to slumber. But the sight of Yusuf so at peace, feeling so safe by his side to let go of any worry, of any fear, being lulled to sleep by his hands only? He thinks he would be happy with that sight only for eternity.

He finishes the piece with a smile, let the strings ring in the silence of the night before starting on another one, another learned song that he brightens up to match his content mood. Nicolò will lull his sleep for a bit longer, simply because he can, and because he wishes to. Yusuf seems so peaceful, so calm. This is a dreamless sleep, one born out of a deep need of rest, one that he will wake from feeling dazed and lost until his hand closes around Nicolò’s and everything will become clear again.

Once the fire finally dies down, Nicolò will put the guitar away and gently move Yusuf to lie down with him. He will, like always when he’s stirred from his sleep, groan and protest until Nicolò will fit himself by his chest, and then he will wrap his arms around him, tuck his nose by his neck and fall back into Orpheus arms. Nicolò will lay awake for a while, listening to the surrounding before falling into dreams too. Dreams filled with music and Yusuf’s hands, eyes, scent, his everything. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Fantasie - Silvius Leopold Weiss](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5y0O7I4Ubp4)
> 
> Romanticism is the superior genre in European classical music* (don’t @ me, I’m a guitarist I’m entitled to my shitty opinions on what classical music should sound like) but sometimes Baroque can have some right.
> 
> And yes, technically Galante music is one of the transitory genres between Baroque and Romantic with the classical period and that piece was written in 1719 so right at the launch of the whole “let’s leave the loud and fancy behind for emotions and imagery” movement of mid-18th but let’s be honest, it’s funnier to say that Baroque has some rights.
> 
> *Purely born out of me listening to Chopin once at like 9yo and my brain decided that it was the greatest thing ever and wouldn’t let go of it. Completely subjective but also absolutely right.
> 
> Also, please go look up the Theorbo, this magnificent creation born out of pure human hubris and challenge against how many strings one can add to a lute before it becomes too much and defy the law of physics (hint, it’s 15). One day when my bank account will look better I’ll get one for myself and feel like the most shameless player ever with my 1.5 meter lute.


	9. Steel Strings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The strings are woven by metal now. It doesn’t change anything for Joseph, Nicolas still smiles the same when he plays them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I’m not dead college just happened. Now that I’m done with the exams and only dreadfully waiting for the results to see how much I fucked them all up, I finally have time to write for fun again. And this chapter was especially fun to write, so enjoy!
> 
> Impromptu Regency era lesbian enters and shares her wisdom because there are never enough sapphic characters. Also queer solidarity.

**British Empire, London, 1810**

They got a letter from Andrea. It’s been almost ten years since they last heard of her, the lastest news dates back to their last visit to Athens where a letter informed them she would be staying in New Holland, or Terra Australis as they first heard about it, settled there after finding a job she liked enough. They left her in China almost a lifetime ago near the border with the Punjab and the two of them left to live a quiet enough life on the shores of the Mediterranean Sea, bought a home in Malta and took time for themselves like her until Napoleon decided to come to the island. They left as the French garrison did and since then have been lending their services to various causes, most of them located in Europe, most of them caused by Napoleon and his thirst for power.

They found her last letter waiting at the house they keep in Córdoba. In very few words she told them they needed to meet soon, before the end of the year, and to take a boat to New Holland, that she’d find them at the port. They do not know why she needs them with her in the country, but it must be important for her to press them to travel so quickly.

This is how they find themselves in the outskirt of big London, staying in a small flat near the docks, waiting for their boat to take them along settlers of all kinds to new horizons. Neither of them ever set a foot there, so it’s quite an exciting prospect to still have places to discover despite their old age.

They’ve been exploring the city for the past few days, trying to keep their memories of the place at bay. It’s been a long, long time since they were here, and there’s still one person missing from that time.

They found themselves at a music shop yesterday; and they don’t usually spend their coins too frivolously, not when they’re about to set for a long journey but some things you just can’t help. Because Nicolas found a guitar in that shop, bigger than what they both remembered, but that wasn’t the only thing about this one.

“Yusuf! It has metal strings!” Nicolas had said before touching the instrument, eyes wide with wonder. He hadn’t been the most enthusiastic when he first heard this idea, but apparently he had changed his opinion since then.

It has six strings this one, and none of the doubled courses like before. It is also bigger than what he remembers the guitar being, it’s as big as his arm now, still retaining this hourglass shape and a flatback. And now even the rose is completely carved out, leaving a hole through the table. He wonders what happened to beautifully ornated roses. The honey color of the wood is beautiful despite the lack of fioriture and decoration. It is also most likely the only guitar in this shop they can afford without digging too deep into the money they have on themselves.

They looked at it for a while, examining the smallest details until the seller told them to either buy or leave it alone. It was a quick choice. But after the impulsive purchase, and upon first playing, Nicolas found himself greatly disappointed by the frets. Metal frets too.

“They are fixed to the wood Jo’. How am I supposed to adjust the notes now? First, they put frets on, and now we can’t even move them. They are making these instruments more and more trite. Where is the originality of each player?” He complained all while examining the said fixed frets with a frown.

“I’m sure there’s a reason habibi.” He said, mindlessly browsing through boxes of tea to get something for their booked room at their inn because the tea served there isn’t the best. “Maybe the fret didn’t keep under the metal? I don’t think guts would appreciate to have steel pushing against them, and I don’t think metal frets can be moved as easily as wound guts around the neck of the guitar.”

“Maybe.” He reluctantly granted to Joseph. “I still don’t like it. At least the tuning is the same, they didn’t put the same notes over each one of these metal strings.” Joseph listened to his love complain about it some more before he tried to play something on it. He saw the conflicted opinion on his face because the metal strings do sound quite good, a bit clearer maybe, stronger certainly. Though it did lose some of the finesse of the guts. But he knows that Nico likes it because he stops complaining and instead starts to really learn how to play this new version of the guitar. And it’s rather easy for him, by dusk he has successfully adapted most of his repertoire to it and even started to improvising some tune with it.

Joseph spends the evening drawing him struggling with the instrument, the crease in his eyebrows and the vein at his temple. It’s a nice day he thinks with his cup of tea on one side, Nicolas on the other and papers over his laps.

~*~*~

Last night, kids from the neighborhood saw them walk back to their room with the guitar. They’ve been asking for Nico to play all morning when he went out to buy some food, Joseph listened to them pester him through the open window with a smile. After their meal and once the sun was high in the sky, Nicolas took the guitar and settled at a nearby park, surrounded by a dozen of small children, all asking for tunes and for songs, singing with him and clapping along.

Joseph sat on another bench, a bit away to keep an eye on them but also to give Nicolas space with the kids. He wasn’t ever really drawn to them, most of the time he’s even awkward and unsure around small children but he understands them, how frightening the big and bright world is and how a nice gesture and a kind word can help. The kids like to be treated with respect from an adult, so rare these days, and they like how calm he is. Truly unflappable his Nico, he can stand his ground when canons are shooting at him and when four different kids decide to climb his shoulders like a mountain. And they like to test the limits of his patience. None of them ever found it, not like any adults or even Joseph himself could find it. He finds it incredibly amusing and endearing to watch his love spend time with kids, it’s a rare sight that he takes the time to enjoy everyone he’s blessed with it.

He took his book of bound paper with him and a few pencil and charcoal, occupied his hand with sketching the parc, the trees, the wildlife around here, taking the time to memorize it all on paper because no one knows when he’ll be back around this part of the world and it’s nice to keep memories with him. Despite his occupied hands and the truly disturbing look he can have on his face while concentrating on drawing Andrea told him once, he had been joined on his bench.

Her name is Emily, a young maid who is walking her mistress’s children. They both ran toward Nicolas as soon as they heard him and she found the distraction of music a great opportunity to have a moment of peace, letting the children have their fun with the guitar player. She chose a seat next to Joseph and they’ve been talking for the better part of the early afternoon, a bit of small talk about any and everything, something that flows easily between them. Joseph loves talking with people, it’s the one thing he will never tire of.

She’s a young, bright woman who has a sharp mind and sharper wit, throwing at him lines of poetry and tongue in cheek jokes that get many laughs out of his chest. She’s a lovely person and she likes to read in her free time. It is not often she tells Joseph, but sometimes if she’s done with chores early enough she reads before going to bed, and on Sunday too. In return, he tells her about his travels, what he saw of Europe and the authors he’s read about, the poet he met. He tells her about everything he and Nicolas do and have done, and it’s nice to share these stories with someone new.

He’s just done with a story about how he and Nico were chased out of an inn’s room by a family of very angry seagulls when his eyes naturally gravitate toward his love. He watches him play and it’s like he’s falling in love all over again, right there in the middle of the park, looking at Nicolas playing for kids, singing slow songs with words they know so they can sing with him. He’s smiling, a soft and gentle little thing and Joseph knows he must wear the same adoration over his own face.

“He’s beautiful,” Emily says. Joseph blushes, feels his cheeks heat up at being caught dreaming at the profile of Nicolas but he can’t stop looking at him.

“He is.” He tries to keep his voice tame because he knows his love isn’t always the most welcomed, not anymore, not here. People are willing to ignore when in doubt but openness isn’t something they usually accept.

“You love him.” She says, but there’s no judgment in her voice. Clever woman. Joseph knows that sometimes you have to lie, to hide and fool others. But there are few things he refuses to lie about, and Nicolò is one of them.

“I do.” Silent stretches as the kids pester Nicolas for another song. It’s not really pestering, as he’s gladly starting another one of his tales, but that’s the word closest to what he’s seeing and the most amusing one in his head. “How did you know?” Emily awkwardly shrugs and tucks both of her hands under her skirts.

“Dorcas looks at me like you look at him.” She’s smiling, a proud grin stretching her lips. “When we’re cleaning laundry together, sometimes I sing. And when I’m lucky, I catch her with the same eyes you have when you’re looking at him.” She looks so young to Joseph, her cheeks still round with childhood fat, her eyes big and bright but there’s something in them, something deep and anchoring. She refuses to look at him, the easy demeanor is gone, her shoulders are tensed as if she’s waiting for a blowback for her words.

“Eyes are the first thing to betray the lover.” He tells her, because what else is there to say? “Second are the hands.” He sees her forearm flexing, her fingers working the fabric of her dress.

“How did you know you loved him?” She asks and then turns to look at him. She wasn’t sent away for an offensive assumption; she wasn’t dismissed for her feeling and Yusuf wants to tell her how strong and courageous she is for saying these words to him, a stranger for her. He knows more than anyone how hard it is to claim your love out loud for the world to hear.

“Me and Nicolas, we didn’t meet in favorable conditions.” He tells her, can’t exactly explain the truth but it is close enough for her to understand. “Bad impression of each other, we only met again a few years later. By then we both grew a lot, and I knew. We started traveling together through a series of events we couldn’t control and I just knew, deep down, that I loved him. That I loved watching him, that I loved any and all of his habits, the nice and the annoying ones. But the day I truly realized it was when we were sitting one evening at a café on an island lost in the middle of the Mediterranean. We talked, and then the setting sun hit his face in such a way, he was telling me childhood stories and I realized, right there, that I would be happy to stay in this moment forever, sharing a cup of coffee and talking. I would be happy anywhere in the world as long as he’s by my side.” He looks away from her face to Nicolas. “That’s what love is for me, the sense of comfort that you have found your home in the eyes of another person, that you are understood and valued in a total, absolute manner by that person.”

“You have beautiful words mister al-Kaysani.” Emily says by his side, and he hears how the tears thicken her voice.

“I told you, you can call me Joseph.”

“A poet like you deserves all the respect and praises.” She says with a playful grin and he laughs. Sharp mind and a sharper tongue.

“How did you know you felt for Dorcas?” Emily is silent for a while, her eyes lost in the distance as she thinks. The answer comes so easily to Joseph because he spent decades, centuries pondering over it, putting it into words, poetry, tapestry and canvas and in the air he breathes every day. She’s so young, barely twenty years of age, nothing compared to the time he had on this earth. And yet, he knows he’ll like the answer when she turns her head toward him with a dangerous glint in her eyes. Sharp mind, sharp tongue.

“I knew about my feeling for her a year and seven months ago.”

“How many days?” She looks to the left; he sees her counting on her fingers before she looks back at him with a grin.

“Sixteen days.”

“What if I ask for the hour?”

“Around six in the afternoon, we were preparing the meal for the family.” He’s half tempted to ask an even more specific clarification but now curiosity woke in his head and he wants to know what event engraved this day so well into her memories.

“What happened?” He prompts her.

“She laughed and I stopped breathing.” She says it with such assurance and yet, her voice mellows out and slips into honey as she says the words. That simple. “We were talking, one of the cooks said a joke and she laughed and I almost cut my finger because I was too busy listening to her. She makes my heart race in my chest, makes my lungs run out of air, she makes me feel good, comfortable. When she touches my hands and help me braids my hair some morning, that’s when I know of heaven.”

“You too have a way with words, miss Baker.”

“Do you believe in destiny mister al-Kaysani?” She asks him, and he has to take a moment, lay his eyes on Nicolas once more who has taken a child on his knee and let him strum the strings as he plays various chords and melody on the neck.

“I do yes. Sometimes, some people are meant to be, sometimes not, and that you cannot control. But I also believe in the power you have over the course of events. You always have a choice, that is what Mankind has been gifted.”

“I think I was meant to meet Dorcas.” She says, tilt her head to the right, shrug a shoulder. Think over her words before speaking. “But I don’t think God intended for us to love each other in this manner.”

“God intends a lot of things and it is not for us to know them.” He tells her and she laughs, small and fast. “Have faith that in the end, He’ll give you happiness.”

“I used to think my love was wrong.” She says, and her voice is grave. “A woman’s heart should not beat for another woman. But one day, I saw two men holding hands in an alley, and they looked so happy, just being together, walking side by side. I thought, a love like that can’t be wrong. And I’m sure I love Dorcas as much as these two men love each other. As much as you love Nicolas.” Joseph nods, heart tugging in his chest. “I know I was taught it’s wrong, but I don’t think it is, not really. It’s wrong only to those who don’t understand love. We’re hiding it, but it’s there, it exists. It’s real. And I love Dorcas more than anyone else.” There are tears welling up in the corners of her eyes and Joseph can’t help himself.

“Come here, miss Berker.” He says and opens his arms. She’s nestled against his chest in an instant and he rubs slow circles over her shoulder blades with his hands, feels them shaking with her sobs. He is sure that must be indecent to do such things in the open these days, but he couldn’t care less.

“You are an incredibly brave young lady.” He tells her. “You have a big heart and a good mind. Know that this love, what you’re feeling, it is not wrong, it will never be wrong. It is the most beautiful thing on this earth to love and be loved in return. It’ll keep you warm in the darkest night and guide you through all the hardship in this world.” She nods against his chest and her tears are slowing. He feels it, Nicolas’s gaze on him like one feels the sun on his skin. He turns his head to see his love watching him, his kind eyes full of warmth. He presses two fingers to his lips and Yusuf smiles.

“It may seem daunting today, too big of a feeling in the face of this world but believe me when I say this,” She pushes away from his chest and dries the last tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. “You will find happiness, peace and a good future.”

“You did?”

“I did.” This time, she’s the one to turn her head to look at Nicolas on the other side of the parc. “I couldn’t live without this man, just like I know what I mean to him. He is more me than I am, and I know his eyes more than the night sky. Happiness is possible for people like us Emily.”

“You promise?”

“I promise. I swear it.” She takes one, long breath in and holds it for a few seconds before slowly letting it go.

“Thank you, Joseph. I didn’t know I needed to hear this, but your words are taking a weight off my chest.” She worries her dress again and he lays a hand over hers.

“It’s important to help each other. It’s what we were put on this earth for, love and be kind to one another. And it’s even more important for us, who have to hide a love so splendid from this world.” Her green eyes are shining bright and the smile on her face is radiant, so much freer than the one she had earlier.

“You have something beautiful, you and this man.” She keeps her voice quiet but the emotion is thick in it. “You keep it, alright?”

“I plan to.” It’s his turn to smile. “To eternity and more.” Emily nods, satisfied and he has no doubt she’ll get the life she wants. “Promise me you’ll keep and cherish your love for Dorcas. And that you’ll cherish yourself too.” She turns her head toward him, and there’s so much hope in her eyes, it’s blinding.

“I will mister al-Kaysani. And we shall.” She nods, once, curt and determined. “If we cannot find good husbands, we’ll stay with our mistress, and follow her to her cottage in the countryside when she’s old. And we’ll stay there for her children, and we’ll raise them too, together. We’re going to have a beautiful life me and her. We will be happy.” It sounds like a promise too, and he couldn’t be more pleased to hear these words.

They stay on the bench for a while longer, silent but in peace, until time presses her to leave. They hug one last time; he slides the drawing he did of her earlier in the pocket of her dress with a little note written behind it and she goes to gather her mistress’s children.

Nicolas joins him on the bench soon after, and he cannot talk about this, not yet, the words are too big in his chest but the weight of his hand on his own is enough for now. Grounding, solid, a silent reminder.

~*~*~

They board on the ship the next morning as the sun is still rising from the horizon. They set their luggage and the guitar in their small room and stay on the deck as the boat sails away from the port, watching family and friends waving goodbye. As the ship leaves to the great waters, Joseph cannot help but think of curled hair green eyes, the smile of this woman who has an entire life awaiting her with the arms of her lover’s next to her. He cannot help but think of how rare that is in the grand scheme of things.

“Nicolò?” He says, and his hand is immediately on the small of his back, fingers splayed over his coat.

“Yusuf?”

“Do you know how happy I am we got so lucky and met each other? I don’t know what I would be doing in this world without you by my side.” It’s not often he is so blunt with his emotions, he likes to think about them and finds the right words but today it feels too much, too big, he needs to get them out otherwise he feels like he could burst from them.

“Oh, Yusuf.” Nicolas turns toward him, presses his other hand on his neck, lets his thumb rub the thin strip of skin between his beard and his ear, a soothing motion centuries-old between them. That feels like home, like a million other things about Nicolas feels like home to Joseph. “I thank the heavens every day I wake by your side for the gift that you are.” His big eyes, flowing openly with his heart and emotions, is enough to express what he’s feeling inside. Nicolas is everything he needs at this instant.

“Good.” He nods, and he cannot help himself. He presses his head against Nicolas’s, feels his breath on his skin and the rise of his chest. “It’s good.”

“You did well with Emily." He says because of course he knows what was going through Joseph's mind, he always does. "She was lucky to have met you too.”

“Yeah. I just hope she’ll have a good life.”

“From what you’ve told me, I wouldn’t worry about that. She seems like a bright woman who knows what she wants. She has that on us from our first meeting.” Joseph barks out a laugh and leans away from Nicolas who is smiling, the thin line he has when he’s happy that he made Joseph laughs. He’s seen it often these last years he thinks warmly.

“That she does. That she does.” He shakes his head and turns back to the sea, one shoulder pressed to Nicolas’s and their hand linked together under the railings.

*

Somewhere in London, on the bedside table of a young maid lays a charcoal sketch of her face in the shadow of a tree. On the other side, in a loopy handwriting, reads a few words.

_You are not alone, dear Emily, and stronger than you think.  
One day you will stand where I stood, with a lifelong happiness and guidance for others like you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing Joe delivering a speech I wished I heard sooner in my life was very therapeutic. It's nice to remind yourself that your love isn't wrong but a beautiful thing and that no, you are not alone in this world
> 
> And moving from gut strings to steel ones changed a lot of things for the guitar and its music, but it's because of the fixed frets that we call the guitar an eternally false instrument. Before you could adjust and move the gut frets, and the instrument without any frets you can choose your note to fit as best as possible to the scale and the music you're playing. With fixed frets? All the notes are almost perfect but slightly wrong to have an equal scale on the instrument that can be polyvalent and play pretty much anything. This means playing solo is all good but try recording or playing with other instruments and you will painfully realize how big of a problem those fixed frets are. Hence the false instrument, almost perfect but never quite. I love my guitars but let me tell you, the day I can get my hands on a pre-19th-century guitar or a fretless one I'll thoroughly enjoy it


End file.
